Shelter from the Storm
by CyberKath
Summary: After defeating Ahriman,Duncan meets Leyza Berard - an Immortal with a tragic secret of her own - who helps him heal his wounded spirit.
1. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 1

**Shelter from the Storm**

AUTHOR'S NOTES: 

This story is rated "R" because of a few somewhat graphic hetero love scenes. It is NOT - repeat NOT - slash . If you're old enough to truck on down to your local Barnes and Noble or Borders, and solvent enough to plunk down 6 bucks for the latest Daniele Steel, you won't find anything shocking in my love scenes. The last time I was there, neither of these book stores was checking ID.

Shelter from the Storm is most definitely a Duncan story. A word of caution - this story takes place after Armageddon, and accepts the whole Ahriman concept. It has a flirting relationship with season 6, but it's not quite married to it, though it does have scenes in common.

Also another caution to the purists out there. I took a small liberty with the events of the season 6 episode, Black Tower, so the scenario would fit into my plot. 

THE DISCLAIMERS:

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Shelter from the Storm - Chapter 1 

**Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there  
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.  
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns.  
"Come in," she said,  
"I'll give you shelter from the storm." - Bob Dylan**

A heavy mist drifted down dampening his dark hair. It lifted the tendrils around his forehead and ears into short curls, but he barely noticed the cold discomfort. He gripped the iron bridge railing with both hands and stared into the river below him - lost in its swirling motion.

The night was quiet - as quiet as Paris can get in the hours before dawn. Most of its inhabitants still lay snug in their beds, dreaming their dreams. But he had no dreams to comfort him - this man who stood alone on the bridge with his shoulders slumped under the weight of his burdens. Duncan MacLeod only had nightmares.

Spirit-sucking nightmares that wouldn't let him rest. Nightmares that drove him awake with their horror. To escape them, he'd awake suddenly, covered in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest, then after a moment, reality would drop down to smother him once again. This was no outlandish fantasy - no horrific flight of his imagination. This was all real. All true. And it had happened just the way he'd dreamt it nearly every night for over a year.

Driven into a state of mad confusion by dark forces he still couldn't understand, he'd taken Richie Ryan's head. He'd killed his good friend, his student - the man who was as close to a son as he'd ever have. 

Killing Richie hadn't been his intention, of course. Ahriman had used him as a weapon in an ancient battle between good and evil that had flared up again in modern times. He knew that now, but the knowledge couldn't assuage the overwhelming guilt, nor could it quiet the nagging notion that maybe - just maybe he could have done something to prevent what had happened.

He couldn't of course. Deep in his mind he knew that, as well. He knew the evil entity had been the irresistible force behind his hand. Knew that Richie had been killed to bring the champion of good to his knees. But that knowledge couldn't erase the deed - couldn't erase the helpless rage.

A year in a Malaysian monastery, hours spent pushing his body until it would be pushed no further and long periods of meditation had cooled his rage, helped him cope. He'd finally found a balance, a small core where he could live with the act, but the gut-twisting guilt remained. His Immortal body couldn't scar, but he now knew that his soul could ... and this trauma had left a scar that would remain for all eternity.

During the day he could find peace and the scar faded, but when he tried to sleep, the nightmares came and rubbed it raw. It ached and throbbed like poorly knit mortal flesh and he knew the pain of an old war wound.

He sighed as he watched the river pass beneath his feet. It gurgled softly as it swirled around the pillars of the bridge. At this moment, standing here alone, he could understand how the river might tempt a despondent soul. If he _were_ mortal, it might be easy to answer its call. To step over the railing and drop down into the comfort of oblivion. But he was Immortal. If he chose to kill himself, chose to end it all, he'd have to surrender to the swing of a blade. And Duncan MacLeod could never do that.

Over 400 years of living as a warrior - even when there were no wars to wage - had strengthened his will to survive. Though it had been torn to shreds by Ahriman's evil powers, it still clung to him like a beggar's cloak. He'd wrapped the tattered rags around him and fled to save his sanity. 

The will to survive had kept him warm through a year of cold torture. Kept him going when he thought he could go no further. And it gave him the strength to send evil back to the murky depths where it belonged. Where it would sleep for another thousand years.

He had battled the ultimate evil ... and he had won. So why didn't he feel victorious? Why did the nightmares still come back to haunt him every night? Why couldn't he set it all to rest and return to the light? 

Was this his reward, then? Had he been condemned to wander forever in the shadows between darkness and light, like this thin time before dawn? No wonder the last champion had gone insane.

He stood tall and shook his head. Through all his long life he had gathered a million questions that he couldn't find answers for - now he had a few more. He sighed faintly, then turned to walk back to the barge, but the droning presence of another Immortal stopped him. He whirled around to face the far end of the bridge.

When he turned, the other Immortal stopped walking toward him. She wore a long dark coat and a red beret. She hesitated a moment, then she eased her feet apart.

"I'm not looking for a fight," she called to him - still she drew her sword. 

He smiled. "Neither am I." 

Even as he tensed for battle, he held his arms out to show there was nothing in his hands, then he opened his coat slowly. Some deep-rooted instinct told him it was safe to let her know he wasn't carrying a sword. 

"No sword?" she asked, then she tucked hers under her coat. She approached him with long graceful steps, placing her feet carefully like a cat checking out a strange creature that has dared to wander into its personal domain. 

He answered her question with a casual shrug, but he didn't mention the Filipino kali stick he carried as a precaution. Though he wasn't looking for a fight, he _was_ prepared if one came looking for him.

"No sword?" she repeated, lifting one dark eyebrow in disbelief. "That's a dangerous admission for an Immortal to make." She stopped again - a safe sword's length away. "Are you suicidal?"

"I gave up taking heads for Lent," he answered with a shrug and a smile, then he turned his gaze to the river. Recalling his earlier thoughts, he dared the dark water to mock him.

The woman took a few steps closer, then facing the river she stared down at the water as well. "It's mesmerizing, isn't it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He turned his head to glance at her. "Pardon?" 

A braid of dark hair trailed from her hat to the middle of her back, and the light from the street lamp outlined a finely sculpted profile. He caught himself staring, then shifted his gaze to his feet so she wouldn't catch him as well.

"The water," she answered, without turning to look at him. "Its seductive song ... the sinuous way it moves. It's hypnotic. I could stand here and watch it for hours."

He turned back to resume the posture, he'd taken earlier - hands resting on the railing, head bowed as he studied the water. Strangely, it took on a less ominous cast now that he no longer studied it alone. "I suppose it is," he answered.

"But isn't that why you've come here?" she asked. "To lose yourself in the water? Dump all your problems in the river, and let her carry them away to the sea?"

He considered himself skilled at placing people, but he couldn't identify the trace of accent in her voice. "What makes you think I have any problems to dump?" he asked.

Her laugh was soft - a violin concerto floating on a summer breeze. "Everyone has problems. Besides you're standing out here in this miserable weather when you could be snug in your bed asleep."

She turned to him then, a smile dancing at the edges of a generous mouth. He could see her eyes in the pale silver gleam of the street lamp. They were light-colored - blue or green - maybe grey - he couldn't tell for sure. But he was fairly certain now that the accent had a birthplace somewhere in eastern Europe.

She reached out to stroke his cheek with the tips of her fingers. "And you have more than your fair share," she said. "You carry far too much sorrow for one man. You keep it deep inside and it gnaws at your heart. If you don't let it go, it will eat you alive."

She withdrew her hand, rested one arm along the railing, then regarded him with a disturbingly analytical stare. It made him feel like a sliver of tissue on a slide. He lifted one eyebrow and returned her stare. 

"Is that a professional opinion?" he asked, allowing a slightly snide tone to shade his voice. Perhaps it would get her to stop staring - he felt as though she could read his soul. "Are you a psychologist looking for someone to practice on?" Inwardly, he winced - that had come out sharper than he'd intended. 

She didn't look the least bit offended, though, as she smiled. She watched him for a moment longer, then turned away to look at the river again. He'd won the staring contest, he decided, but he didn't feel much like a winner. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like a winner.

"No," she answered. "Several lifetimes ago, I lived with a tribe of gypsies. Like many of the women, I told fortunes to earn my keep. Madame Martuska taught me everything she knew, but I learned more about how to read people than palms. Still Madame insisted that I had the _gift_." She laughed again, and Duncan savored the lyrical sound. 

"Madame would roll her eyes, glance around, then lower her voice as a precaution whenever she uttered that word. But I had no idea what she was talking about. I never felt gifted. Each time I sat down before her crystal ball, I feared someone would point me out as a fraud."

A psychic - great - just what he needed. "A fortune teller?" he asked, with more than a hint of skepticism.

"One of my many talents," she replied. The smile curving the edges of her lips told him she didn't take the comment seriously. "But I haven't read a palm in decades."

"Why don't you read mine?" he asked, holding his hand out, palm up. He had no idea why he'd done that. His hand was out, and so was the question before he even had a chance to think about it.

She took his hand and held it between her own for a moment. She stroked his palm, running long slender fingers gently over its contours. Her touch was soft and warm as it had been when she touched his cheek. 

Remembering the last time he'd had his palm read, he fought off a strong spasm of anxiety. This was a bad idea. What had she found there? Why was she studying his hand so intently? He needed to see her eyes, but she had tipped her head down to examine his hand and they were hidden behind her bangs. 

"It's been such a long time," she said, finally, then she curled his fingers to close his hand, leaving one of hers on top of his. She glanced up at him with an unreadable expression glimmering in her eyes. "I'm afraid I've let whatever skills I had get rusty, Mr.--"

"MacLeod," he responded, bowing his head slightly. He left his hand sandwiched between hers. "Duncan MacLeod ... of the Clan MacLeod."

Still regarding him with a curious expression, she smiled. "I'm Leyza ... Leyza Berard." She tightened her grip on his hand for a fleeting second, then let it go. "And I haven't felt connected to any clan or tribe for a long time, so I'm just me."

He returned her smile, then he stuffed his hand into the pocket of his coat. Now that she was no longer holding it, it felt suddenly cold. 

Leyza raked another unreadable expression over him, then she turned back to look down at the river once more. Letting silence drift around them like the mist, she stared for a moment, then she sighed.

"You know," she said. "If I was a mortal considering suicide, I wouldn't do it this way. I think I'd wash down a bottle of sleeping pills with a magnum of Dom Perignon. I'd go out in style and comfort. What do you think?"

Concerned by the sudden note of despondency in her voice, he took a step closer. "You're not ..." He let the words trail off as he reached out to touch her.

When his hand met her arm, she turned to look at him again. A frown puckered her brow, then she lifted one corner of her mouth into a half smile. "Considering suicide? Me?" She shook her head. "No ... if I was, I would have offered you my head, wouldn't I? That's the only way out for us."

He didn't answer her question. He didn't even want to think about her question. He couldn't avoid taking heads forever, if he wanted to keep his own - but he didn't want to start tonight. And he certainly didn't want to start with hers.

Leyza turned away from him again. "No, I just came here to talk to my old pal, the Seine," she said. "She listens patiently, tirelessly. She doesn't judge, and she doesn't offer unwanted counsel. What more can you ask of a good friend?"

He had no answer for that question either. He hadn't felt like a good friend in a such long time, he'd forgotten what might be expected. He did, however, have a strong sense that Leyza wanted to be alone with her friend.

He took a step backwards. "I'd better be going, then," he said.

She waited a moment, then she turned to him. "Don't rush off on my account," she said, but her weak smile hinted that she was merely being polite. It hinted at something else too, an apology for chasing him off, perhaps.

"I've been here too long, already," he said, lifting the collar of his coat higher. "It's cold and I'm getting wetter by the minute." 

"Better button up," she said. "You wouldn't want to catch a cold, now ... would you?" She grinned then, and the smile lit up her face with a tantalizing glow that made him reconsider leaving.

"No," he said, with a soft chuckle. "I guess not. Well, I'll say good night, then ... or maybe good morning since it's nearly dawn." 

He tipped his head toward the east where a faint glow lightened the dusky sky. Suddenly he didn't want to leave, but having said good night, he couldn't think of an excuse to stay. He shuffled his feet for a moment, hoping she'd ask him to stay.

Leyza let her gaze follow his nod. "So it is," she said, letting her smile linger before she turned away. "Good morning then ... sweet dreams."

He paused to ponder her cryptic comment, then he shook his head as he walked away. Had she guessed that nightmares kept him awake or had she really read his mind? No - she couldn't have ... or could she? He didn't know what to believe about such things anymore.

He paused again at the end of the bridge, then glanced back over his shoulder. Leyza stood, as he had stood - her head bowed, hands gripping the railing. He watched her for a moment, then as though she had felt him watching, she turned toward him. She flexed her fingers in a wave. He waved back, then left her alone.

As he walked back to the barge, though, an odd sense of weightlessness lifted his spirits. He hadn't felt quite so content in a long time. He also felt a flickering desire to know more about Leyza Berard, and he wondered if fate would give him the chance.


	2. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 2

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 2

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

By the time he returned to the barge, the rising sun had tinged the cloudy sky with a pink glow and the heavy mist had vanished. A strange buoyant spirit had him whistling a long-forgotten tune as he crossed the quay.

Still whistling, he descended the stairs with an unfamiliar spring in his step, and he smiled as he stripped off his damp clothes. There was no reason for him to smile - he was tired, cold and wet. But he simply felt like smiling. While he dragged on a pair of sweat pants and a loose-fitting shirt, he thought again about Leyza Berard. 

Like crocuses tricked into bloom by a winter thaw, a hundred questions popped up in his mind. Where had she came from? How long had she lived in Paris? What did she know? Where had she been? What had she done? How good was she with a sword? How soft was her skin? Her hair? Her lips? And what would she look like lying beneath him, her naked body bathed in candlelight?

_Don't go there, MacLeod,_ he scolded, then he chuckled as he willed away the stirring in his groin. It had been far too long since he last held a woman's supple body in his arms. Far too long since he'd even thought about it.

He'd never met Leyza before - he was certain of that. How could he forget a woman like her? When the light from the street lamp had touched her eyes for that brief moment, it had unveiled a quiet wisdom that glimmered deep within them. And he wondered how old she was. 

She had appeared to be in her late twenties - thirty perhaps. It had been hard to tell in the dim light, but it didn't matter. Appearances meant nothing when you were Immortal - only experience counted. And Leyza Berard had radiated an air of calm confidence that comes only with age and experience. 

When he finished changing his clothes, he set those thoughts aside until he could dwell on them with a clear mind, then he went up to the deck to greet the dawn with his regular exercise routine.

As usual, he blended several disciplines into one continuous flow, and he worked through the kata with slow deliberation. After a time, he lost track of all conscious thought. His surroundings - the barge, the river, the quay - all vanished into a hazy void and the only sound he heard was the steady thump of his heart and the whoosh of his deep breathing. 

Finally his muscles balked as he pushed them beyond their limits. With some reluctance, he gave in to their groaning and dropped down onto the cabin roof. He tucked his feet into a half lotus, then sat for a moment with his eyes closed, drawing in slow deep breaths as he let his senses return. When he opened his eyes, strong sunlight danced along the rippled Seine, and a cool breeze drifted over his sweat-soaked shirt. 

He shivered as a chill caught him off guard, but he didn't move to escape it. The grueling routine had left him, as it usually did, in a very tranquil state. Not happy, not joy-filled, merely in perfect balance. He was loath to disturb it. 

Through his long life, he'd experienced both boundless joy and crushing sorrow. Lately though, life had brought him too much sorrow and not enough joy. It had taken him many months to attain his present halcyon state, and at this point, he was grateful for it. If he had to endure the sorrow to recapture the joy, he wasn't sure it was worth it. He could be satisfied with peace.

His stomach rumbled to remind him that he hadn't filled it in quite some time, so he clasped his hands behind his head and leaned into a deep stretch, then he stood. He watched the water flow past the stern of the barge for a moment, then he remembered that Leyza had come to the bridge to tell her problems to the river.

"Wanna listen to my problems?" he mumbled, smiling because he felt a little foolish.

The river simply gurgled as it rushed past the barge to keep its appointment with the sea. It had no time to listen to an Immortal's problems. 

"Thought as much," he grumbled, then he shook his head. The concept had made perfect sense when she'd explained it last night. Now, it merely seemed silly.

He went below decks to shower and change, then he fixed some fruit and rice for his breakfast. As he ate, sitting on a floor cushion before a low table, he glanced around the barge.

To clear his mind of all distractions and the heartache that familiar surroundings had triggered, he'd stripped it completely when he returned from Malaysia. He'd packed away all his possessions, then replaced them with the table, a few cushions, a mandela and a thin futon for the platform bed. In the barren space of the one room - lit only by candlelight - he could maintain the peace. Nothing remained that would disturb the flow of tranquillity around him, and now with the defeat of Ahriman behind him, he kept it that way.

As he set the empty bowl on the table and reached for the teapot, a wave of inexplicable longing washed over him. It rose suddenly, unexpectedly, then it drifted away, leaving him restless and no longer content with the routine of his life. He shifted his shoulders to chase it as he poured steaming tea into a black porcelain cup, but the rumbling discontent remained. 

He tapped his fingers against the cup as searched his mind for a cause. The only thing that had changed in the last few days was meeting Leyza Berard.

"You carry far too much sorrow for one man," she'd said. "You keep it deep inside and it gnaws at your heart. If you don't let it go, it will eat you alive."

She was a stranger - and a presumptuous one, at that. How could she know what was in his heart? 

He thought he'd finally shed the sorrow, put the past behind him. Now he wasn't so sure. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he had merely buried it deep inside. Perhaps that's why the nightmares returned each night to torment him.

He shook his head as he stood, leaving the tea to cool. Somehow in the space of a few minutes conversation, Leyza Berard had sent ripples to mar the even surface of his tranquillity.

He took the empty bowl over to the bar that served as his kitchen. He washed it out, then glanced at a small brass clock that sat on the end of the bar against the wall. He was surprised to find the hands positioned at a little past nine.

He tapped it, then listened to make sure it was still ticking. It had to be later than that. The whole day stretched out before him - a vast empty plain. Well, that was easy to fix - he'd simply fill it.

He tided up the kitchen, plumped up the cushions, folded the blanket he'd left on the bed, then he finished his tea. He washed the pot and cup, then put them away. Once again, he glanced at the clock. It was half past nine.

He strode across the room to the bookshelf he'd recently added to the room's sparse furnishings, then he skimmed his fingers along the spines of his books. He could always read away his discontent. Lose himself in a book for a few hours. That had worked before. But today, none of the titles peaked his interest.

A long walk might do the trick. He could stop by the bookstore, pick up a new volume or two that would prove more interesting than the ones he had. Or perhaps he could wander through the Louvre. Yes, a long walk was definitely the answer.

Basking in the golden sunshine, he strode away from the barge. The unusually warm day promised to be a treasure worth savoring - a good day to stay outside and enjoy Mother Nature's unexpected gift. With merely a moment's hesitation, he turned, then set his feet in the direction of the Luxembourg Garden. 

He'd fill the long hours with the simple pleasures he'd find in the park. The song of birds. The sensual touch of a gentle breeze sifting through his hair. The heady scent of pines and sun-roasted earth. The melange of shadows and light that the sun would paint over the bare trees. The trees themselves, dark sculptures reaching for the sky. 

He hummed as he strolled along Boulevard Saint Germaine. Yes, the balance was back. The day no longer appeared empty, and life was good.

Inside the park, however, things didn't go quite according to plan. With no reason to keep track of the days of the week, he'd forgotten it was Saturday. After a week of rainy weather, it seemed as though half the population of Paris had come to the park to enjoy a day in the sun. 

Children scampered, squealing with delight as they raced away from their mothers. They chased one another, weaving through pairs of young lovers who held hands and stared into each other's eyes - totally missing the fact that they were being used as obstacles in a game of tag. 

An old man and an old woman sat close to one another on a bench while they fed a flock of bobbing pigeons. And not one of them even cast a glance at the only man who strolled among them - alone - with his hands tucked into his pockets.

He stopped, then slumped down onto a vacant bench. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands before him. This wasn't working. For over a year, he'd been engrossed to the point of obsession with defeating Ahriman. Afterward he'd been content with his solitude. It was safer that way. No one could get hurt ... or killed by being his friend. But as he swept a glance around him, he couldn't help noticing that everyone in the park seemed to be with someone else - everyone except him. 

He'd been alone before, but always with a purpose - to think, to clear his mind or to lick his wounds. Now his aimless solitude weighed as much as a millstone. He sat up and straightened his shoulders as if the gesture alone could chase this unexpected weight. As he suspected, it didn't help.

He stared down at his hands, then he suddenly realized that the nameless longing he'd felt this morning _had_ a name - loneliness.

Raised as a cherished member of a closely knit clan, he'd come to accept a large extended family as a norm - the level by which he measured every relationship of his long life. He'd spent most of that life surrounded by family, then by good friends. But many of his friends had died ... some even by his own hand, then in the last year - after Richie's death - he'd let misguided self-denial drive the rest away.

Amanda and Methos had both left messages on his answering machine. He'd listened to them the night he returned to Paris, then he'd thrown the answering machine and the telephone in the river so it wouldn't distract him from his mission. He'd never returned the calls. He had no idea where either of them were, and he hadn't attempted to find them. Better to leave things as they were, then no one could get hurt.

There was, of course, Joe Dawson. 

He couldn't ask for a better friend, then the steadfast Watcher, but he no longer knew how to talk to the man who had stuck with him through it all. The ordeal should have brought them closer, but it hadn't. He, not Joe, had let guilt erect a wall between them, because he owed Joe Dawson more than he could ever repay. Though Joe asked for nothing more than friendship, Duncan had let the debt grow until it left awkward lapses in their conversation. Silences he couldn't seem to fill, because the right words refused to show themselves.

So now he had no one. No one to turn to. No one to talk to. No one to hold him in the middle of the night.

"Och," he said, shaking his head in disgust. "Ye sound like a sickly old woman, MacLeod."

He took a deep breath and glanced around, hoping to find something to remind him that he was still Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Still the Highland warrior.

Across the way a mime amused a small knot of people by pretending he was trapped in a glass box. He moved his feet in a small square space and pressed his hands against invisible walls.

Duncan watched him for a moment, then realized that was exactly the way he felt - trapped in a glass box - able to see life, yet isolated - cut off from its simple pleasures. And he also realized that it was a prison of his own making.

"Stop feelin' sorry for yerself," he grumbled as he dragged himself to his feet.

He turned away from the mime, away from the reminders of what he could have, if he only could break free. Then he began to walk with no clear destination. He simply let his feet take him wherever they had a mind to go.


	3. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 3

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 3

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Staring down at his feet, Duncan watched himself put one foot in front of the other. He lost himself in the calm nearly hypnotic rhythm of his steps. He lost all track of time. Lost all sense of his surroundings ... then some inexplicable impulse lifted his head. 

He stood for a moment as he let his mind return to reality, then he looked up. The building he'd stopped before had a sign above the door. It read, _Le Blues Bar._ He smiled, and shook his head. His feet and his subconscious mind had taken him to Joe's. Accepting that as a sign, he stepped up to the glass-paneled doors. 

Unlike the bar Joe had run in Seacouver, _Le Blues Bar_ attracted a more sophisticated night owl crowd, so he rarely opened before nine in the evening. Using his hand as a shield to cut out the sun glare, Duncan peered inside. After his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he could see someone moving inside. 

The man stood behind the bar. From his motions, it looked like he was replenishing the stock, but he was too burly to be Joe Dawson. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Duncan tested the door. It opened at his touch, so he stepped inside.

"We're closed," the man muttered without glancing up from his task.

Ignoring the admonition, Duncan ambled over to the bar. "I'm looking for Joe Dawson," he said. "Is he around?"

Before the man could answer, a thumping sound on the left caught Duncan's attention. He turned his head to check it out.

"Ya leave the door open, ya never know what'll blow inside." Joe Dawson smiled as he hobbled to Duncan's side. "Long time, no see ... how the hell are you, MacLeod?"

Duncan shrugged the question away. "I'm alive," he said, though lately he'd been wondering just how true that was. "Yourself?"

"I'm good, Mac," Joe answered, taking Duncan's outstretched hand in his. "I never thought I'd like living in Paris full time, but I'm now that I'm settled in - I like it here. Business is good. Word is spreading, and we usually get a big crowd on the weekend. I've even polished my French up enough to haggle over the price of beer."

Still struggling with conflicting emotions, Duncan couldn't maintain eye contact. He glanced around the bar as Joe spoke.

"Speaking of French," Joe continued ignoring Duncan's silence. "If you've got a few minutes, I have some invoices in the back - maybe you could help me translate them."

"Sure," Duncan said as he followed Joe to his office behind the bar. "No problem." He could handle the simple request. It gave him something to do ... and it gave him an excuse to stay.

Joe stopped at the door, then looked back over his shoulder. "Like a drink? I've got a bottle of very old single malt ... I've been saving it 'til I could share it with a friend."

Between the year in the monastery and the cleansing diet Duncan had been on, even the occasional glass of wine sent him reeling after a few sips. Still he hated to refuse. Part of him ached to get back into the mainstream of life, but the part of him that cherished the peace of the backwater still held the oars. There had to be a middle channel, but he had yet to find it. 

Besides even though it was finally afternoon, it was way too early in the day to start drinking. Duncan shook his head. "Don't suppose you have any tea?" he asked.

"Tea? No, sorry," Joe said with a grin. "I just ran out." He shook his head and chuckled softly as he continued on into the tiny office. "But I do have a fresh pot of coffee."

"Coffee's good," Duncan answered, then he glanced around looking for a place to sit. 

There weren't many choices. On this side of the desk, the only chair - a grey metal straight-back with patched green vinyl padding - held a stack of computer printouts. Duncan picked them up, then searched for a place to put them - not many choices there either.

Joe set a white ceramic mug filled to the brim on the desk, then reached out for the stack. "I'll take those," he said, then he dropped them on top of another pile that filled the far corner. Hooking his cane on the back of the wooden chair behind the desk, he lowered himself between its arms.

Duncan smiled, then he watched the steam curling up from his coffee. He stared at his hand as he traced the contours of the mug handle with his fingers. He had so much he should say, but no idea where to begin.

"So how have you been?" Joe asked, repeating the question he'd asked earlier. Apparently, he couldn't think of anything to say either.

"Good," Duncan answered, then he lifted the mug to his mouth. "I've been good."

"You look tired," Joe commented.

Duncan shrugged. "I've been staying up nights, lately ... reading," he lied.

They sipped their coffee in awkward silence for a few minutes, then Joe broke it. "So have you heard from Methos or Amanda?"

Duncan set his mug down, then stared at his finger as he ran it around the rim. "No ... ah, actually, I haven't," he answered without looking up.

Joe's chair creaked as he shifted his position. Still Duncan didn't look up.

"One of my people saw them on Mikonos ... together," Joe said, softly.

Duncan didn't want to hear that. "Mikonos is nice this time of year," he said for want of anything else to say. "I've been there a couple of times."

"Mmm," Joe murmured, then they fell into silence once more.

"So," Duncan said, setting his mug down at last. "I thought you had some invoices you wanted me to look at."

"Oh, yeah," Joe said. "They're right here." 

Duncan thought he detected a note of relief in the other man's voice. 

Joe leaned over to open one of the drawers, then he pulled out a stack of papers. He dropped them on the desk, then slid them across to Duncan. "I've been reading them without too many problems, but this new wine supplier has me stumped. I'm not sure what he's charging me. He speaks English, but he's a snooty son of a bitch and he refuses to explain his bills."

Duncan laughed. "I've met the type," he said picking up the top invoice.

For the next half hour, Duncan went through the bills with Joe. They discussed the snobbery of most wine merchants, and they chatted about France in general. They talked about the bar, and duties on imported beer. They touched on the weather, and the price of single malt. Before long, they slipped easily into a comfortable camaraderie.

Duncan thought perhaps they'd made it over the hump. Perhaps they were back on familiar ground. He held onto that thought until no more invoices littered the desk top. Once again, silence and innate male reluctance to discuss emotional subjects slammed the door between them.

"More coffee," Joe asked, breaking the silence at last. More trivialities - that's all they could deal with lately - trivial matters. Coffee, the weather and the price of booze. Were these the only safe topics of conversation?

"Thanks," Duncan replied, then he held out his mug. As he watched Joe refill it, a question that had been skating around at the back of his mind spun to the forefront. It dared him to ask it. He struggled with temerity and struggled with his conscience.

Waiting for Joe to sit down again, Duncan shifted in his chair. The question continued to nag. A year ago, he would have asked it without hesitation. Now, he wasn't sure he had a right to ask such things. He owed Joe so much. Dare he add to his debt?

The question refused to go away. "Um, Joe," he began.

"Yeah, what is it, Mac?" 

"Have you ... ah, what do you know about an Immortal who calls herself Leyza Berard?"

Joe leaned forward in his chair. His eyes sparked with interest, as he wrapped his hands around his mug.

"Leyza Berard," he mused, casting his gaze to the ceiling. He scrunched up one side of his face, rubbed his chin, then shook his head. "The name doesn't ring a bell." He pinned Duncan with a speculative stare. "Why?"

Duncan shrugged. "I met her last night on Pont St. Louis near Notre Dame," he answered, watching his fingers turn the mug so he could avoid Joe's eyes.

"You fought?" Joe asked, his voice rising on a bubble of excited interest. He leaned forward.

"No," Duncan answered with a shake of his head. "We didn't fight."

Joe sighed as he sat back. "Oh," was all he said.

Duncan looked up at that. "You sound disappointed," he said, bothered by the fact that it was the first thought Joe had. He was bone-weary of the fighting and the killing. He thought Joe understood that.

"No ... ah--" Joe shifted in his chair. He leaned forward, then sat back again. He stared down at his hand as he ran it along the edge of the desk, then he laughed. "But you know, Mac ... there's damned little to put in your chronicle these days. It's a hell of a thing when the only entry in the last few weeks is that you played bocce with ah ... what's his name?"

"George Thomas," Duncan supplied, as he suppressed the twinge in his heart. "His name was George. And he died, Joe."

Joe winced. "Yeah, I was sorry to hear that," he said. "Nasty business."

Duncan shrugged. At least it hadn't been his fault - hadn't even been connected to him in any way. "What about Alex Raven? Didn't you write about her?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got that," Joe answered, "but you have to admit it wasn't exactly significant."

"What do you expect, Joe? Even an Immortal can't go around dodging swords, leaping tall buildings and rescuing the world from evil every day."

Joe sighed as he tipped his head. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "But I've kind of come to expect that from you. Right now, from my point of view, your life's a little boring."

Duncan looked up at the note of mirth in Joe's voice, and he caught the Watcher's wide grin. He grinned back. "I guess," he said. "Easy job, though."

Joe laughed. "That it is."

Again silence drifted between them, but it held less tension than before. They could laugh again and that was good.

"So do you think you could find out about Leyza Berard for me?" Duncan asked, softly. Again he didn't look up as he asked the question.

"Why this sudden interest in Leyza Berard? Did she challenge you?"

"No," Duncan said, shaking his head. "She's living in Paris, and I just like to know who's in the neighborhood." Why _did_ he have this sudden urge to learn more about her? He didn't know.

Joe didn't respond right away, and Duncan looked up to check if he was still listening. As he did, he caught the Watcher staring at him with an intense scrutiny. The intensity puzzled him. "What?" he asked.

Joe grinned. "Well, I'll be damned ... you're interested in her aren't you?"

"Didn't I just say that?"

"Nah - you're not just interested in learning about your neighbors - you're attracted to her. And it's about time."

Duncan stood. "I think you've been sampling too much of your bar stock," he said. He tried to pace, but the room was too small, so he just stood glaring down at Joe. He shuffled his feet, then shoved his hands into his pockets.

Joe chuckled, as he shook his head. "Welcome back to the land of the living, MacLeod," he said. "In case you forgot, it's what happens between men and women ... yin and yang ... opposites attract ... all that stuff."

"Very funny," Duncan said with a snort as he sat down. This conversation was headed in the wrong direction. "Are you going to check her out for me or not?"

"I don't think so," Joe said, continuing to regard Duncan with an amused expression. "I'm your Watcher, not the Lonely Hearts Detective Agency. Why don't you just ask her what you want to know?"

Simple question. Why couldn't he answer it? "Because I don't know where she lives. I don't know if I'll see her again," he answered after a few moments.

"That's a problem then," Joe said. "Have you tried looking her up in the phone book?"

"Do you really think I'll find her in the phone book?"

Joe chuckled. "Probably not ... but there _are_ other ways."

"You're not going to help me ... are you?"

Joe was still grinning as he shook his head. "Not this time. I don't look good in a diaper, even with a bow in my hand. I'm not gonna play Cupid for you."

Duncan glared. Joe didn't budge. 

Is that what he was doing? Asking Joe to play Cupid? He'd convinced himself that his interest in Leyza was purely academic. But was it? 

The details of her soft voice, her sensual smile, the heady scent of her perfume lingered in his mind. They were etched deeply, even now hours later, and merely thinking about her brought on a tingling thrum of something he hadn't felt in quite awhile. It startled him to realize that Joe was right. His interest had much far more to do with carnal knowledge, than intellectual pursuit.

This revelation would take some getting used to, and he couldn't do it with Joe staring at him like a zoologist studying a new species. He stood. "I'd ah ... better be going then," he said, trying to figure a way to make a graceful exit.

Joe stood. "Thanks for helping out with the invoices."

Duncan nodded. "Any time. You know where to find me."

Joe smiled as he came around the desk. "That's right, I do." he said, clapping Duncan on the back. 

Duncan moved toward the door, then he turned. "I'll see you around, Joe."

"Yeah, see ya," Joe responded. "And Mac ... mind your head, eh?"

"Always do, Joseph," he answered chuckling. "Always do." 

Their shaky relationship seemed to have righted itself again, and he caught himself humming as he left.


	4. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 4

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 4

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Moving with stealth through the dark abandoned race track, Duncan brushed dangling paper strands away from his face. The faded festoons and drooping streamers lent a grotesquely gala air to a truly bizarre situation. He didn't even know what he was searching for. He had no clue what he would find. And he wondered if he'd really gone insane.

Horton. Richie had told him, Horton had Joe Dawson. But that was impossible - Joe had been with him at the barge. And Horton was dead. Or was he? 

Twice before, Duncan had thought him dead, and twice he'd returned. Had he returned once again, or was he an illusion created by a Zoroastrian demon? 

Kronos _was_ dead - Duncan had no doubt about that. He'd taken the Horseman's head himself - and he'd taken his Quickening. Yet Kronos had returned to taunt him as well. 

He tightened his grip on his sword as he fought to hold on to his sanity. What was real? What was illusion? He couldn't begin to guess. 

As he approached the escalator, he heard something. He stopped and looked around, straining his ears to pick up even the tiniest sound. Suddenly he realized that the escalator was moving - moving in an abandoned building. He turned around to face it, then approached it cautiously.

A man sat on one of the descending steps, his head bowed.

"Richie?" Duncan called out. "Richie, are you all right ... Richie, it's me."

The man stood, then walked the rest of the way down the steps. "I know," he said.

Duncan released his breath in a sigh of relief. It was Richie. But his relief fled when he noticed Richie's eyes. Something was very wrong. Richie's eyes were glowing with an odd light, then he laughed.

"You!" Duncan whispered. He backed away as Richie ... no, the demon advanced. What was real? What was illusion?

"You ... me ... me ... you?" the creature with Richie's face taunted him. "Is that how you see me? You don't even understand your place in all of this, do you?" He brought his sword down. It slashed across Duncan's stomach.

The searing pain was real. The blood on his hands - his blood - was real. He scrambled backwards to escape the arcing blade. He fought back. Lifted his blade to bring it down for a kill. He couldn't do it. He blinked to clear the vision of Richie's face. It didn't work. What was real? What was illusion?

"What's the matter?" the demon taunted him again. "Can't hurt your little buddy? Some champion."

It came at him again, scoring a few more slashes. Duncan fought the demon, fought his mind as well. The signals were crossed - nothing made sense. Who was he fighting? What was real? What was illusion?

"What the hell are you anyway?" he asked, frantic - sure he'd lost his mind.

"I am your friend," the demon with a friend's face answered. He grinned. "I am not your friend."

Suddenly Richie was gone and he was facing Horton. "I am the man you can not kill." Horton lifted his hand. In it he held a gun. 

The shot echoed through the empty concourse. A burning pain blossomed high on Duncan's chest. He fell backward. "What are you?" he asked again.

"I am Set," Horton answered, but now he was on the escalator.

Richie followed Horton down the moving stairs. "I am Ahriman," he said, an evil grin marring his boyish features.

"I am everything your people call demons and devils," Kronos chanted as he swung his sword.

Horton, Richie and Kronos closed in on him. They circled him, jeering, mocking, laughing - chilling laughter with no trace of mirth.

"No," he whispered, a feeble rasp against an insurmountable terror. He clambered back to his feet, clinging to his katana. He was drowning in a torrent of evil and the familiar sword felt like a lifeline. It was the only solid thing he could grasp. What was real? What was illusion?

He did the only thing he knew how to do. He drew on four hundred years of experience. Four hundred years of living as a warrior. He fought back. The enemy disappeared, then reappeared. It closed in, then it vanished. They came at him one at a time, then they all closed around him.

He didn't know how to fight them ... no it. He couldn't even find it. He fought blind, and he fought in vain as his sword sliced through nothing but thin air.

Finally, he struck something solid. Something resisted his sword, then gave way as the katana cut through it. Silence slammed down like an iron gate, and a body dropped to the floor in front of him. 

The silence lingered in the air for a moment. He blinked, then looked down at the body. There was something ... something--

A roaring blast filled his ears. Searing pain racked his body. Lightning flashed in a red fog. Separate screams rose above the cacophony, then merged. Richie's disembodied screams mingled with his own.

He knew what this was ... he knew a Quickening when he experienced one. But he hadn't expected this one. Who? What? He couldn't think in the maelstrom that surrounded him.

The awesome energy vanished as quickly as it had come. It released him from its grasp, and he dropped to his knees. He couldn't believe it was over, for this Quickening had brought no compensating ecstasy ... only horrific pain.

It took a moment for him to realize that he was kneeling next to the body. Slowly, recognition sank in. Gripped by an overwhelming sense of panic, he reached out to touch a familiar jacket. It was real ... oh, so very real.

A scraping noise behind him made him turn his head - turn away from the horrible reality before him. A laugh, familiar, yet not at all familiar.

"Richie?" he whimpered, his voice filled with empty hope.

Then he woke to the sound of his own screams. He awoke drowning in abysmal, racking anguish. The pain was so horrendous he couldn't begin to describe it. Each time he thought it couldn't be worse, yet each time it was.

The agony faded slightly as his gasping breaths filled his lungs and slowed the breakneck beating of his heart. He'd gripped the thin blanket so hard, his fingers were numb. He focused on forcing his fists open one finger at a time.

Sweat dripped from his brow into his eyes, and the sting of it felt almost comforting in comparison to the unrelenting pain that clutched his heart with razor sharp talons.

Drawing his knees to his chest, he hugged them, then lowered his head as he rocked away the anguish. Finally he lifted his head, took a long slow deep breath and raked his sodden hair back from his forehead with trembling fingers. The nightmare had shattered his sleep once again.

He rolled to his knees, rose slowly from the prayer rug where he slept, then he staggered to the bathroom. Leaning back against the shower wall, he let scalding water cascade over him. When he finally felt cleansed of the anguish, but not the guilt - never the guilt - he turned the water off, then dragged himself back to the main room of the barge. 

He slumped down on the corner of the bed, and sat for a moment with his head in his hands. There was only one thing to do. The solution had become as ingrained as the nightmares. He stumbled to the trunk that stood by the bulkhead. He grabbed the first shirt and pants his hands touched. He pulled them on, snatched up his coat and the kali stick, then he walked slowly out into the night.


	5. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 5

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 5

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

He couldn't say how long he'd walked. He walked without direction, heedless of all around him, allowing his mind to escape to a numb place where pain no longer existed. He found comfort in the rhythm. A minimal peace in the calm fluid motion. And he found a small haven where he could retreat from the nightmare.

Then he stopped. Something had pierced the armor that shielded his mind. Something had sent ripples across his tranquil sea. It pressed on his mind, throbbed in his head the way only one thing could. He had wandered into sensory range of another Immortal.

He reached under his coat for the kali stick as he glanced around. Then he smiled when recognition set in. He had stopped at the end of a bridge - Pont St. Louis. The bridge where he'd stood last night. And Leyza Berard now stood in the middle. She watched him approach.

"So we meet again," she said, easing her feet apart as she touched the open edge of her coat.

Duncan noted her actions. He lifted one eyebrow. "Hunting?" he asked.

"No," she replied. "You?"

He smiled as he shook his head. "No ... I've--"

"I know, given up taking heads for Lent," she finished with a broad grin. "Come back to talk to my friend, have you?"

He glanced around, still trying to shake the trance he'd fallen into while he walked. "I was ah ... out for walk, and I just ended up here."

"Uh-huh," she said, nodding. A wise smirk lit up her face. 

She didn't believe him. That was clear. Didn't believe he had ended up on the bridge by accident. Had he? He couldn't be sure.

"So what _does_ bring you out here in the middle of the night?" she asked.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"So you could ... but I asked you first," she parried. Chuckling softly, he shook his head. "So you did." He turned toward the river, then rested his forearms on the bridge railing. "Insomnia," he answered. It was as good a non-answer as any.

He turned his head to look at her, to check her reaction. She watched him with a speculative gleam in her eyes and a smile on her face. He couldn't help smiling back.

"Hmmm, insomnia?" she mused. "Let me see ... guilty conscience, perhaps? Stress? Depression? Too many spices in the bouillabaisse?"

"None of the above," he answered. A lie for sure, or at least a stray from the truth. "Your turn."

"Me?" she asked. "Definitely, too many spices in the bouillabaisse." She grinned, then she turned to gaze down at the river. 

Her shoulders lifted, and Duncan thought he heard the faint whisper of a sigh. So she could lie as well. He wondered what troubled her, but it wasn't fair to ask if he was unwilling to share his own reasons. 

The night was clear, but colder than the last one. Standing side by side, each lost in their own thoughts, they fell easily into a companionable silence. 

Duncan found the silence strangely soothing - far more soothing than walking empty streets alone. That thought struck him as odd, for it was the kind of silence that only feels comfortable with a close friend. Standing here on a bridge in the middle of a cold dark night with a perfect stranger, he felt more at home than he had anywhere in a long while.

"I miss the stars living in the city," Leyza said, after a few minutes. "Don't you?"

"I hadn't thought about it," he answered - the truth. He hadn't thought about stars in a long while. Stargazing was one of those simple pleasures that had fallen by the wayside.

"It's the damned light pollution," she continued. "It dulls their spark until you can't tell the Pleiades from Orion. Even the North Star is pale." 

"You're an astronomer?" he asked, probing, hoping she would reveal information about herself. Hoping she would do it without asking difficult questions in return.

She laughed as she shook her head. "Strictly an amateur," she answered. "One of my mortal lovers was, though. Jonathan taught me the names of all the constellations, and how to pick out the planets. Now I've forgotten most of what I knew. They still fill me with wonder though."

"Yes," he answered. He couldn't think of much to contribute to a conversation about stars.

"If we keep our heads," she mused. "We could travel there one day. It's an exciting prospect to contemplate ... no?"

He smiled. "I guess it is. But that's a long way into the future. Who knows if we'll still be around."

"True, I suppose," she said, with a shrug. "But I'm an incurable optimist. The possibilities that lie before us as Immortals are limited only by our imaginations - that's what's so exciting."

He sensed she had turned to look at him, so he turned his head to meet her gaze. The smile that brightened her face, and the sparkle in her eyes reflected a zest for life he'd begun to forget existed. Even though he knew something troubled her, it was clear she still believed in possibilities. 

The startling notion that she spoke the truth left him speechless. He suddenly realized, that while he was stripping his life of all distractions, he'd jettisoned possibilities along with the rest of his excess baggage. Perhaps it was time to explore his possibilities again. Perhaps now it was safe to allow distractions to creep back into his life.

He studied her in silence for a moment - stared at her for as long as politeness would allow. If he hadn't noticed the deep pool of wisdom in her eyes, hadn't felt the calm confidence she exuded, he'd have sworn she was newly Immortal. 

Even though he'd fought to hold on to it, the excitement of being Immortal had faded somewhat after four centuries of killing to perpetuate his long life. Many times he simply lost sight of it. Over the last year or two, it had vanished without leaving a trace. 

Fitz always had a way of helping him find it again, he mused ... but Fitz was dead. Amanda usually could too, but she was off in Greece with Methos.

"Did I say something wrong," Leyza asked, touching his arm with a gentle hand.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I was just thinking about ... never mind ... it's not important." Leyza Berard could be new, but instinct told him she was not.

He returned her smile, then looked away. Her shining enthusiasm struck a chord deep within him, and the note it played was bitter sweet. He couldn't bear to listen to it. Not now, not yet anyway. Still, he couldn't chase the pleasant feeling it left behind, and he savored it as they fell into silence once more.

"Duncan ... do you like, croissants?" she asked, after a few minutes. The silence peeled away slowly as he tried to understand the odd question.

"Pardon?" he said, shaking his head slightly to clear his mind. "Do I like what?"

"Croissants ... do you like them? Or fresh brioche ... baguettes, perhaps, still hot from the oven?" she repeated the question, expanding it. 

He smiled as he shook his head in wonder. First stars, now bread. This was the oddest conversation, yet his mouth watered as he recalled the taste of warm bread lathered with creamy butter. A slight twinge of hunger rippled through his stomach. "Sure," he answered. "Why?"

"Because," she said, leaning close as though they were conspirators in some nefarious plot. 

She threaded her hand though his arm, then lowered her voice to a whisper. "I have friends who own a bakery not far from here. It's nearly dawn, and they should be taking the first batch out of the ovens as we speak. If we hurry, we can catch them in the act."

Without waiting for his response, or even asking permission, she tugged on his arm as she began walking toward the other side of the bridge. He gave a millisecond's thought to protesting, then he shrugged, _why not?_

"I suppose that's were we're going," he asked as he fell into step beside her. 

"Yes - I go there for breakfast every morning. Marie makes the best coffee in all of Paris, and Phillippe makes the best croissants." she said, then she stopped. A frown of confusion marred her brow for a second, then she flashed him a smile filled with chagrin.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Here I am dragging you off to breakfast, and I never even asked if you wanted to go."

"It's all right," he said, feeling suddenly buoyant - a sensation he'd begun to associate with her. He laughed, as he settled her hand into place on his arm. "I rather like being dragged off when it's a beautiful woman who's doing the dragging."

She muffled a delightful giggle and what he suspected was a blush with her other hand, then she looked up at him. "I'll bet you say that to all the women you meet."

"No," he said, slowly. "Only the ones dragging me off to breakfast."

"This is it," Leyza said, turning to guide him down an alley. She paused before a screened door near the end of the building, then she rapped on the frame. 

"Hello ... Phillippe ... Marie ... company!" she called out as she pulled the door open, then motioned for him to follow her.

The room beyond the door appeared to be a store room. Sacks of flour and sugar, cartons of spices and racks of baking equipment filled nearly every inch of space. Only a narrow path remained clear. At the far end, light shone through a curtained doorway.

They hadn't taken more than a few steps into the room when a giant dressed entirely in white pushed through the curtain. He filled the door frame and nearly blocked out all traces of light. Beaming a broad smile framed by a neatly trimmed reddish brown beard, he held out arms the size of tree trunks. 

"Ah bonjour, ma petite!" he exclaimed, wrapping Leyza in what was literally a bear hug.

Duncan smiled at the contrast. Leyza was by no means _petite._ The top of her head came to just below the level of his own eyes, so she had to be about 5' 7" or maybe 5' 8" - yet next to this Goliath, she was, indeed, small. Next to this man - who he assumed was Phillippe - most everyone would be small.

The giant released Leyza from the hug, then bent over to accept the kiss she planted on his cheek. "Uff, I'm getting flour all over you, petite," he said, brushing white dust from her face with a large thumb.

"A little flour won't kill me," she said, laughing, then she turned to Duncan. 

"I hope you don't mind ... I've brought a guest. This is Duncan MacLeod." She stepped back so Phillippe and Duncan could shake hands. "Duncan ... Phillippe Vachon." 

"Come in, come in," Phillippe said, as he ushered them through the curtain. "You're late, and Marie was worried you wouldn't come."

"Marie is always worried," Leyza answered. More of her laughter danced around the small room. 

Warmed by more than just the heat from the ovens, Duncan followed them into the kitchen. A slender woman came through an open door on the opposite side of the room. 

"Phillippe is the one who worries, not me," she said with a friendly smile. "I knew you would come." She wiped her hands on a crisp white apron, then enfolded Leyza in a hug. 

Tall, but nowhere near the height of Phillippe, Marie looked over Leyza's shoulder. She narrowed her eyes as she regarded Duncan with a slight frown.

Leyza slipped out of Marie's embrace, then turned to him, treating him to another glowing smile. "I hope you don't mind my bringing Duncan along," she said, fluttering her hand in his direction. "I found him wandering the streets, and he looked cold and hungry." She winked to show she was teasing.

"No, of course, I don't mind," Marie said. 

She smiled as she tucked straying wisps of sandy blonde hair beneath a baker's cap, then she wiped her hands on the apron again. "Please ... come in ... I've just made a fresh pot of coffee."

She slipped her hand under Leyza's arm, then towed her toward the front of the shop. "I look a fright," she whispered. 

Her voice was still loud enough that Duncan could hear, though he wasn't sure whether or not that was her intention. She glanced over her shoulder at him, smiled, then turned back to whisper to Leyza once more.

"Next time you bring such a handsome guest, give me a little warning first," she hissed. "I'm such a mess ... what must he think?"

"You look lovely as always," Leyza said, also keeping her voice low. "And he is handsome, isn't he?"

The two woman muffled giggles and a few more comments that he couldn't hear - wasn't sure he wanted to hear. The sounds of their laughter and the signs of their warm friendship mingled with the comforting smell of fresh bread and the heavenly aroma of strong coffee. The rich melange wrapped around him like a cozy blanket as he stepped forward to join them. Then he stopped when the glass walls rose up before him once again.

He didn't belong here in this intimate scene. These people were obviously good friends, and he was a stranger in their midst. An extra cog in a well-tuned machine. He shouldn't have come. Taking a step backwards, he turned to leave - turned right into Phillippe.

"Marie would be insulted if you left without having a cup of coffee," he said softly, yet coming out of this bear of a man the simple comment sounded more like a growl than a whisper.

Duncan didn't think it wise to insult the wife of a man nearly twice his size, and he couldn't get past him even if he was willing to take the risk. Given so few options and tempted by the smell of fresh bread and coffee, he simply shrugged. What was he to do? What was the point? He turned around, then preceded Phillippe into the next room.

The baker edged around him, then crossed the small room in one long stride. He stopped at a table, gaily swathed in a blue checked cloth, that fit neatly into one corner. Giving Duncan absolutely no room for escape, he pulled a spindle-backed chair out from the table, then with a wave of his very large hand he indicated that Duncan should sit in it.

Phillippe sunk into a chair at the table's head. He regarded Duncan with a flinty glare while Marie bustled about setting mugs filled with steaming coffee and plates of golden bread before them. 

"Have you known Leyza long?" he asked after a few discomforting seconds.

Leyza reached out to place her hand on top of Phillippe's. "We just met," she said, then she patted his hand. "And it's all right Phillippe. You can stand down from guard duty. Duncan isn't going to bite."

Phillippe continued to stare at Duncan for a moment, then he turned to Leyza and he grinned. "I wasn't--"

"Yes, you were," Leyza said with an answering grin. "I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself, remember?"

Duncan felt as though he'd walked in on the middle of a film. He was lost. He had no idea what the plot was about. But as Marie came over to sit with them, the joy of their bubbling conversation flowed over him. 

The trio opened their circle and made a space for a stranger. They shared the glow of their friendship with him. Their laughter-filled chatter was contagious, and before long he found himself laughing along with them. Surprised that he still had something left to laugh about, he even added a few anecdotes of his own. 

Too soon, reality broke the spell. The rattle of the front door signaled the arrival of the bakery's first official customers, and Leyza stood. "Sounds like the mob is storming the Bastille," she said. "They all want their bread ... we'd better let you get back to work." 

Phillippe hauled his massive body out of the chair. "Let them eat cake," he grumbled. "I'm tired of work."

Marie winked as she pinched a sizable chunk of Phillippe's upper arm. "Don't let him fool you," she said to Duncan. "He loves it!"

Leyza smiled, then she tipped her head toward the door. She mouthed the words, "We have to leave."

It was the last thing Duncan wanted to do. He could have sat here in this tiny room for the rest of his Immortal days. Here he'd found a golden peace that was far more satisfying than any he'd achieved through meditation or pushing his body to the extreme with a brutal workout. The song of life filled his heart along with their laughter and it called him into the light. 

Leyza tugged on his arm. "Marie and Phillippe have work to do, and we're in the way," she whispered, as though she sensed his reluctance to leave.

He stood, then, thinking he ought to pay for breakfast, he slipped his hand into his pocket.

"Don't even think about it," Leyza whispered, once more picking up on his thoughts. "You'll make Phillippe angry." She smiled as she let a brief shudder shake her shoulders. "Not a wise thing to do unless you really enjoy pain."

Reluctantly, Duncan removed his hand from his pocket, and with much less reluctance, he slipped it into the hand Leyza held out to him. She laced her fingers in his, then gently towed him toward the door. She paused a moment before leaving to say good-bye, but Phillippe and Marie were already caught up in the business of tending to the morning's first customers. She shrugged, smiled, then led him back into the alley.

He wasn't sure whether it had gotten colder or whether it was merely the contrast, but without giving it much thought, he pulled Leyza closer to hold onto the warmth. Slipping his arm around her seemed like a natural progression, and she eased in next to him as though they'd been walking like this for years.

"It's going to be another lovely day," she said as they paused at the head of the alley.

Duncan glanced at the small queue that had formed at the bakery door, then over head. The rising sun had already tinted the cloudless sky a pale blue, and morning church bells pealed in counterpoint to the sounds of traffic as the city awakened. "Yes it is," he answered.

Leyza escaped from under his arm, but she held on to his hand. "I've got to go," she said with a smile of regret.

"I'll walk you," he said, tugging on her hand to pull her back into his embrace. 

She resisted, then managed to slip her hand out of his grasp. "I'm a big girl," she said with a smile. "I'll be fine."

There was no point in arguing. He'd already lost. He could see it in her eyes. She blew him a kiss, then turned to walk away.

"Leyza," he called.

She turned. 

"Sweet dreams," he said with a smile.

Walking backward, away from him, she laughed, then blew him another kiss. "You too," she shouted, flexing her fingers in a wave, then she turned away from him again.

Duncan shivered off a sudden chill as he watched her leave. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then turned to walk back to the barge. 


	6. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 6

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 6

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Shelter from the Storm/part 6 

_There's a certain comfort in familiar routine._

Duncan rolled that thought around in his mind as he strolled through the night-hushed streets of Paris four weeks later. Even at 3 am, a few cars prowled the boulevards, their occupants heading home, or to an early morning job, or perhaps searching for an after hours club that still throbbed with life. A delivery truck or two rumbled past him, but at this hour Paris was as quiet as any major city can get. Just a barely audible thrum of unrest droned in the background - the heartbeat of a city asleep.

Duncan savored the quiet. His heart filled with peace and a burgeoning pleasure as he neared Pont St. Louis. No longer did he wander aimlessly through the night. Now his perambulations had a purpose, a destination. Meeting Leyza Berard on the bridge each night had become his familiar routine.

They would meet - each acting as though their meeting was a chance encounter. They would talk awhile about art or philosophy or music - but rarely about themselves - then they would stroll off, arm-in-arm, to the bakery for breakfast.

Duncan had found a comfortable routine for his days as well. After he left Leyza outside the bakery, he'd return to the barge, workout for a while, eat, tidy up a bit, then he'd read or maybe meditate to while away the morning hours. 

To fill his afternoons, he'd fallen into the habit of dropping by _Le Blues Bar_ to help Joe with his invoices. Even though both he and Joe knew the Watcher could manage to wade through them on his own, the task provided a focal point, a place where they could meet on safe ground. A place where they could reweave the frayed fabric of their friendship.

Duncan had begun adding bits and pieces of furniture to the bare barge as he added people to his barren life, and he began to feel connected once more. The glass walls that imprisoned him were still there, but now he could reach out and touch life through them. He could bring small portions of life inside. 

The sudden whirring pulse of another Immortal jarred him out of his reverie. He looked up, spotted a familiar figure standing at the center of the bridge, then he quickened his pace and strode up to her. 

Leyza turned to watch him approach. She smiled. "We really have to stop meeting like this," she said. "People will talk." 

He slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her close, then placed a tender kiss on her forehead. He brushed her cheek with his thumb, enjoying the soft touch of her skin beneath his finger. "Oh yeah," he whispered. "And what will they say?"

She laughed, and he let the sound caress him, then he tensed when she moved away. She allowed him to get only so close, then she always drifted off to a place where he couldn't follow. He suspected that despite her aura of bright cheer, she, too, lived behind glass walls. There were times when she let the mask drop, and he sensed a deep flow of sadness coursing beneath her sparkling clear surface. Before he could ask, before he could explore it further, though, she would set the mask back in place, then tell a joke or scamper off like a rabbit down one of her inane conversational paths. 

"You know," she said, breaking into his thoughts. "I haven't the vaguest idea what they might say. What _do_ people talk about when they _talk_?"

Like this, he thought with a sigh, then he slipped his arm around her and she let him pull her close again. How could he answer a question that had no answer? "I don't know," he said with a smile. "Does it matter?"

She leaned her head against his chest, and her shoulders lifted as she exhaled a small sigh. "No," she said softly. "I don't suppose it does."

She didn't have much to say tonight, and neither did he. But that was fine with him. As long as he could stand here next to her, holding her, feeling her breathe, feeling her warmth mingling with his own, he could be content. With Leyza at his side, he didn't feel quite so alone, quite so disconnected. He felt at peace. 

There were, of course, times when he wanted more. When her laughter tugged at dormant desires. When her smile triggered a restless, throbbing pulse in his groin. When her eyes sparkled and he wondered how they would glow in the heat of passion. But tonight he was content just to hold her and follow his thoughts wherever they wandered.

They were green, her eyes - the color of polished jade. He'd noted that as he watched her chatter away in fluid French with Phillippe and Marie the night she'd first dragged him off to breakfast. He'd noted it every night since, as he'd noted the rich golden brown of her hair, and the way it curled around her shoulders when she didn't wear it bound in a braid. He'd memorized the way her lips curved when she smiled, and the bare hint of a dimple that slipped into her right cheek, and the lyrical chimes of her laughter. 

He felt like he'd known her a lifetime ... several lifetimes, and yet he didn't know her at all. He still didn't know how old she was or where she had been born. When they talked, they spoke in abstracts, rarely touching on the details of their lives. His had too many dark secrets, and fear of revealing them kept him wary. Had she something to hide as well? Or was her reticence merely a natural trait? These were questions that he longed to ask, but he dared not.

Last night, though, she'd been in an expansive mood, and he'd learned more about her than he had in the previous weeks. When they arrived at the bakery, they had found Phillippe and Marie bustling about like hounds on the scent of a fox. In between taking trays filled with golden loaves from the oven, Marie took a deep breath and a moment to explain that they had gotten a large order from a new restaurant across town.

Leyza had wanted to leave them to their work, but Phillippe wouldn't hear of it. He shepherded them to the corner table and ordered them to sit. Marie set steaming mugs of coffee and plates of bread before them, and allowed no argument. They were to have their breakfast and that was the end of the discussion.

Wearing a bemused expression, Leyza watched Phillippe and Marie work together for a few moments. "They're so in love with each other, you can almost touch it," she said, smiling as she reached for a croissant.

She broke off one horn, then began slathering it with butter softened by the heat of the room. "Have you ever been married, Duncan?" she asked without glancing up from her task.

"No," he answered, watching her with a wary gaze - wondering where the conversation was headed.

She looked up. Her arched eyebrow and the twinkle in her eyes marked her astonishment at his admission. "Never?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Never," he answered. "You?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes ... let me see--" 

She paused to lick the butter from her fingers and Duncan suppressed the urge to do it for her. He wondered how her fingertips would feel as he touched them with his tongue - how they would taste coated in warm butter. Instead he shifted in his chair, then moved his hand a bit closer to hers.

Muttering names in a voice too low for him to hear, she ticked them off on her fingers. "Five ... no, six times," she smiled. "I forgot about Alex - but he doesn't exactly count. And all of them were mortal, in case you were wondering."

"Did you tell any of them--" Remembering that they were not alone, Duncan hesitated. 

He glanced over at Marie and Phillippe who were laughing and jostling each other in jest as they bustled about the other room. It was clear they enjoyed their work as much as they enjoyed each other. Duncan lowered his voice. "Did you tell them what you are?"

"Four of them, yes," Leyza answered with a nod. "Boltar, my first husband, didn't know because I didn't know." She popped the piece of croissant into her mouth, swallowed it, then she smiled - a broad bright smile that nudged Duncan's heartbeat up a notch.

"And like I said, Alex didn't count," she continued. "I was very lonely. He was devastatingly handsome and utterly charming. We ran off to Las Vegas two days after we met in 1962, got married in one of those tacky wedding chapels, then got divorced 8 months later when we realized we didn't even like each other."

She laughed softly, then gazed at Phillippe and Marie with a look of intense longing. "Did you ever love anyone that much," she asked, tilting her head in their direction.

Duncan glanced down at his hands as her question unleashed a deluge of memories. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Yes, once," he answered. Though he tried, he couldn't keep the faint quaver from cracking his voice.

Leyza reached out and placed her hand over his. "Tell me about her," she urged. "What was her name?"

"Tessa," he answered after taking another deep breath. "Her name was Tessa. "

He rubbed his other hand over his chin as he considered how much to tell her. How much he wanted to reveal. As though sensing his hesitation, Leyza curled her fingers around his hand. He looked up, then he smiled at her. 

"I was running from another Immortal. He'd caught me without my sword, and I had to get away. I spotted a tour boat pulling out from the quay, so I jumped aboard. Tessa was the tour guide. She began talking about Notre Dame, but she got the completion date wrong, so I had to correct her." His smile slid into a grin. "She didn't appreciate my help."

"Sounds like love at first sight," she said, smiling back.

"Something like that," he replied, glancing back down at their joined hands. "Tessa was the first mortal, I'd ever trusted enough to tell--" He glanced up again to make sure Phillippe and Marie were too busy to listen. They were, but he hedged anyway. "Well ... you know."

Leyza nodded. "This was a long time ago?" she asked.

"No," he answered, unable to meet her gaze. Strong emotions tore at his heart, even now five years ... nearly six years later. "Not very long. She was shot a few years ago by a drugged out punk - killed for a few dollars and a car."

"Oh Duncan ... I'm sorry," she said, tightening her grip on his hand. 

He took a deep breath to reign in his emotions, then he looked up at her. She had glanced off toward the far end of the room, but he could still see that she had tucked her lower lip between her teeth. Her shoulders lifted in a sigh, then she turned to look at him. 

"His name was Peter," she said, softly. "The great love of _my_ life - Peter James Berard - but everyone called him PJ."

She withdrew her hand from his, then used her index finger to pick up croissant flakes from her plate. After popping the finger in her mouth to suck off the crumbs, she curled her fingers into a fist, then propped her chin on it. As she gazed at Duncan, her eyes grew dreamy, and he knew she was seeing not him - but PJ Berard.

"I met him in New York City, in the spring of 1921. He was running from the police, and he jumped into my car as I was pulling away from the curb. I started to tell him, in no uncertain terms, to get out, but then he smiled at me. He had the most dazzling smile, I'd ever seen. When he said, 'What are you waiting for, sweetheart ... step on it,' I just floored the damn car - never gave it a second thought."

"You helped him escape from the police?" Duncan asked, smiling. He supposed he ought to feel some moral indignation that she'd been guilty of impeding justice, but the images that filled his head reminded him too much of his own meeting with Tessa. How could he do anything else but smile?

Leyza began poking at the crumbs again. "Federal Revenue Agents actually," she answered without glancing up. 

"PJ made his first fortune smuggling booze into the States from Canada and the Caribbean. The Feds had staked out one of his customers - a speakeasy on 57th street - and he got caught making a delivery." She looked up from the plate, then smiled again. "Well, he didn't actually get caught ... except by me." 

Grinning, she placed her hand next to Duncan's on the table. He saw her action as an invitation, so he slipped his hand over hers, then curled his fingers under her palm.

"We got married a year later and I convinced him to get out of the liquor business, but he didn't need much convincing. The mob had taken control and it was getting way too nasty and dangerous." She shook her head as she chuckled softly.

"PJ said the mobsters took all the fun out of the game. That's what it was to him - a game, a challenge, a puzzle to be solved. He played the stock market for the same reason. But unlike so many others, he was shrewd enough to know it couldn't last. He saw the end coming, and he sold everything off before the Crash of '29."

"Were you together very long?" 

Leyza stared down at her plate, so Duncan couldn't see her eyes. "Not nearly long enough," she answered. "He was killed in 1936. It was dark and raining ... the road had treacherous curves. PJ was driving too fast as he usually did. I begged him to slow down, but he loved driving fast ... loved the thrill of it. The brakes failed on a sharp turn and the car went over a cliff. We were both killed ... but of course, you know how that story ends."

When she looked up at him, her eyes glistened. A single tear spilled over, then began to trickle down her cheek. Duncan reached out to brush it away, but she turned her head before he could. She swabbed the tear off her cheek with her fingers.

"I'm sorry," she said sniffling before she turned back to look at him. "I feel so silly. It's been over 60 years, but I still miss him like it happened yesterday."

Duncan lifted her hand to his lips, then pressed a kiss on her fingertips. "It's all right," he said. "I understand."

She slipped her hand out of his grasp to stroke his cheek. "I guess you do," she said. Taking a long deep breath, she looked away, again. 

"I was so lost without him. I had to get as far away from the memories as I could, so I took off for Australia - but the memories followed me. I bummed around the South Pacific for awhile, hoping to shake them, but that didn't work, either. Nothing worked - I was living in a big void where nothing mattered."

Shaking her head as though she could shake off the ghosts, she turned to look at him, then she moved her hand to his again. Absently she stroked the his fingers with a light touch that sent warm flutters down his spine. 

"In 1941, I went to Hong Kong to visit a very dear Immortal friend. She was always so wise and so very pragmatic. I figured if anyone could jolt me out of feeling sorry for myself, May-Ling could. But then the Japanese invaded Hong Kong and left me no time to think about it."

"May-Ling?" Duncan said. "May-Ling Shen?"

She looked up. "Yes. Why ... do you know her?"

"I did ... she was one of my teachers ... but she's d--

"Dead. I know," Leyza's fingers tightened on his hand. "And if I ever find the bastard who killed her ... he will be too."

"You're too late," he said. "I got to him first."

"Oh, Duncan, thank you." She smiled, then leaned over to press a kiss on his cheek. "May-Ling was the best friend I ever had, I was so angry when I found out she'd been killed. I swore I'd avenge her death, but I didn't even know who had taken her head."

"His name was Michael Christian, and he wasn't very good." Remembering their fight, Duncan shook his head. "I still don't understand how he beat her."

"I don't think he really did. He just caught her at the right time for him ... the wrong time for her. I think she was tired of living," Leyza said, softly, then she sighed and stared at her plate, once more. 

"She called me the day before, and she sounded very depressed. So much had gone wrong, recently." Leyza looked up at him again, then she smiled. 

"She'd been in love for the first time in decades ... really in love. His name was David Wu and they were planning to get married. She was so happy, she was even shopping for a wedding gown and picking out china patterns." Leyza paused to sigh again. The smile faded. 

"But then she was challenged by a series of young Immortals ... out to make a name for themselves, I guess. She said they just kept coming at her like waves in a storm. She'd taken four heads in one month. And David saw the last one ... the beheading and the Quickening. It was too much all at once. He just couldn't cope with it. He broke off the engagement the day before she was killed."

"Had she told him she was one of us?" 

"She had planned to. She was waiting for the right moment, but she waited too long."

Duncan looked away as he thought about Ann. "Been there," he said, his voice just barely above a whisper.

"I guess we all have at least once, if we've lived long enough."

"I guess," Duncan agreed.

"Well, this conversation has gotten quite maudlin hasn't it," she said. "Let's talk about something else. Have you ever been deep sea diving?"

"No, I haven't," Duncan said, chuckling softly as he shook his head.

His answer didn't matter anyway - Leyza didn't even wait to hear it. She scampered off down another conversational rabbit hole like she always did whenever the subject got too personal. By now he knew it was useless to try and corral her once she'd chased off after a topic that struck her fancy, so he just sat back, basked in the glow of her enthusiastic chatter and listened to her extol the virtues of Australia's Great Barrier Reef and the clear waters of the Caribbean.


	7. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 7

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 7

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Beside him, Leyza stirred. Her shoulders shook as she shivered. "It's really cold out tonight," she said, breaking him out of his reverie.

"Yes it is," he answered. Wrapping both arms around her, he leaned back against the bridge railing. He pulled her closer, then he tipped his head and kissed her.

Still unsure of what he wanted from this relationship, he intended it to be a warm innocent kiss, one meant to express friendship, yet one that held a promise for the future. But Leyza surprised him.

Instead of pulling away as she often did, she leaned in, then she slid her hands up his chest. She clasped them lightly behind his head, and let her fingers play in the hair at the base of his neck. 

The soft touch of her fingers on the sensitive skin stirred a hunger he'd been repressing far too long. He wanted more. He wanted her. Wanted her now - lying beneath him with nothing between them but the heat of their passion. 

He moved his hand until it touched the curtain of hair that cascaded down her back. He deepened the kiss, then teased her lips apart with his tongue. She welcomed him with a passion that matched his own, and let him explore her mouth as her body melted into his.

Wrapping his hand around a thick strand of her hair, he pulled it gently to tip her head back, then he trailed kisses along her chin and down her neck.

"Oh Duncan," she whispered. Her warm breath tickled his ear.

He tunneled his hand through her hair and tangled his fingers in the silken strands as he inched his mouth back up her neck. Losing himself in the throbbing heat and the emerging sensations, he abandoned all conscious thought. He simply surrendered as he slipped beneath sensualistic waves of absolute feeling.

One thought did persist, however, and he let it stay because it fit his need. He thought about inviting Leyza back to the barge. But as he pulled back from a kiss to suggest it, Leyza pushed him away with the gentle pressure of her hand on his shoulder.

"Duncan, we shouldn't do this," she said, resting forehead on his shoulder. The folds of his coat muffled her voice.

He cupped her chin with one hand, then lifted her head so he could look into her eyes. He let his thumb caress her cheek. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"This," she said. She tried to pull away, but he held her to him with the arm he still had wrapped around her. She closed her eyes. 

"This is wrong," she whispered. "I shouldn't have ... I can't--"

She pulled free of his embrace, then edged away to stand at the bridge railing. Approaching her slowly so she wouldn't bolt, he moved to her side. He placed his hand on her shoulder and circled his fingers in a gentle massage. He expected her to shrug it off, but she didn't.

"Duncan you need more than I can give you right now," she said, staring down at water below them. "I want to help you, but I can't. There are things you don't know." She shook her head. "Complicated things." 

"I don't understand," he said, puzzled by her comments. _What did she think he needed?_ he thought, but didn't ask. 

Beneath his hand, her shoulders lifted as she inhaled deeply, then let the breath out in a long sigh. He slid his hand to her neck, and with a light touch, he kneaded the tense knot of muscle he found there. 

When she turned to him, then reached up to stroke his cheek, he thought she would tell him what the complications were. He thought, perhaps she would tell him that some Immortal was hunting her, maybe one she felt she couldn't beat. He thought she would ask for his help, and though he had put his sword away, he would take it up again if she needed him to protect her. 

Instead, she moved her hands to his shoulders. "It's a good thing you have such broad shoulders," she said, watching her hands as she slid them across him like a tailor fitting a suit.

He smiled at her cryptic comment. He had no idea where this conversation was headed. It was one of the things about her that fascinated him. She was completely unpredictable - he never knew what she would say next. "Why?" he asked. 

She drew her hands closer together, then let her fingers caress his neck. "Because you carry such a heavy burden of sorrow," she said, gazing into his eyes. "I sensed it immediately that first night we met. It shimmers around you like a cloud of star dust. I just wanted to take you in my arms and hold you. I wanted to help you lay down that burden before it crushes you."

He didn't know how to respond. How could his internal struggle be so obvious to her when he didn't even feel it himself - except when the nightmares struck? How could she know of the fears and guilt he thought he'd banished to the deep recesses of his mind?

"I think you've been spending too much time with your gypsy friends," he said after a few moments.

"Don't deny it, Duncan," she pressed. "You hide it well, but burying it won't make it go away. You need to release it - not just cope with it."

He moved away from her, then he gripped the bridge railing with both hands as he struggled with the urge to do just that - struggled with the urge to tell her everything. All about Ahriman, and being the champion, and killing Richie, and the year he spent in hell. But he didn't. She wouldn't understand. How could she understand what he wasn't sure he fully understood himself?

"You're imagining things," he said on the crest of a sigh. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not fine, Duncan MacLeod," she said, moving close so their shoulders touched. "You're just kidding yourself if you think you are. And it doesn't take Rose Martuska's psychic gifts to see that." 

She slipped one hand over his and held it tightly. "I want to help you," she said. "But I have some things that need to be dealt with first. Can you be patient and accept what we have for now? Accept a promise that I'll make it up to you later?"

This whole conversation left him feeling very unsettled and perplexed. He cherished the friendship they had formed, but he did want more. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to protect her, and shield her from whatever it was that troubled her. But she kept shifting the focus to him. 

"Do I have a choice?" he asked with a smile, keeping his voice soft.

"Yes," she whispered without looking at him. "You could take your burdens and walk away as though we'd never met."

He pulled her into his arms and held her. "I don't want to do that," he said, pressing a kiss into her hair.

"And I don't want that either ... but I need some time," she said, easing him back far enough so she could look at him. "Will you take a rain check on this--" She touched his lips with her fingertips, then she grinned. "Until I can give it my full attention."

"Yes," he answered, then he tipped his head until his forehead touched hers. "But I can't promise I'll be patient."

"Good," she said, then she slipped out of his embrace. Taking his hand, she began towing him toward the end of the bridge. "Let's go ... I'm hungry."

"So am I," he countered with a lascivious grin as he fell into step beside her.

"I was talking about breakfast," she said, grinning back.

He chuckled as he snaked his arm across her shoulders. "So was I," he lied.

* * * * 

Apprehension skittered along his spine as he walked to the center of the bridge the next night. Leyza wasn't there waiting for him as she usually was. Staring at the far end, he expected to see her emerge from the shadows, but she didn't. He couldn't even sense her.

When he reached _their spot,_ he stopped, then rubbed his hands together to keep them warm as he glanced around. _Probably got delayed,_ he thought, but that notion wasn't very reassuring - the delay could be another Immortal out headhunting.

He'd never seen Leyza fight. He had no notion of how skilled she was, and that added to his concern. Where was she? Why was she late? It wasn't like her to be late - after that first night, she was usually there waiting for him.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back against the railing so he could see both ends of the bridge. While he waited, he rummaged through the events of last night searching for clues. Could he have said something to upset her? Something to put her off? He didn't think so. 

While they were eating breakfast, she had seemed in an effusive mood, laughing and joking as she usually did. And when they left, she had kissed him goodnight - simply a chaste peck on the cheek - but that's what she usually did. Nothing, he could think of, seemed out of place - nothing except the _complicated things_ she'd mentioned.

He knew from the beginning that something troubled her, something spurred her to walk the night away. But they'd never discussed it - as they'd never discussed the nightmares that kept him awake at night. Despite what she said about letting go of the burdens, he couldn't do it. Couldn't talk about what happened that night over a year ago. He couldn't even discuss it with Joe - and Joe had been there. How could he discuss it with a stranger?

"I want to help you," she'd said. But how could she help? She couldn't take him back in time. She couldn't reverse what had been done. She couldn't bring Richie back. And she couldn't erase the memories that haunted him.

Perhaps she realized that. Perhaps she had decided he was a lost cause, and that was why she didn't come tonight. Quickly, he dismissed that line of thought. She hadn't struck him as someone who gave up easily. He suspected she had a stubborn streak that ran deep. One very much like his own. He smiled as the old cliche, _it takes one to know one,_ spun across his mind.

As though mere thought could summon her, he glanced at the end of the bridge once more. Only a lone car tooled by - its engine whining as the driver shifted gears. He closed his eyes to concentrate his senses, and he tried to detect any trace of Immortal presence. He felt nothing but a deep penetrating cold.

Propelled by surging concern, he paced a short path along the sidewalk. As he walked, he made a mental list of all the possible reasons why she hadn't come. Some of them seemed innocent and logical, but others were more sinister and troubling. 

He reminded himself that she had no way of contacting him if something _had_ come up, but he wondered what could have come up in the middle of the night. Not business, surely - though he had no idea what business, if any, she might have. 

He didn't know if she worked, or if she was independently wealthy. The notion that he knew very little about her took him by surprise. Up until now, It hadn't seemed important to ask, and he wasn't sure she would have told him if he had asked.

He stopped pacing and took a deep breath. This waiting was driving him nuts - he had to do something. He reached in his pocket to take out his watch. Flipping it open with a flick of his thumb, he checked the time. It was nearly 5 am. Phillippe and Marie would be baking bread about now - perhaps they had some answers.

He slipped the watch back into his pocket, then strode off toward the bakery.

* * * * 

Phillippe poked his head through the curtain as Duncan closed the bakery's back door behind him.

"Ah, bon jour!" he said with a broad smile. "But where is the little one?" 

"I was hoping you could tell me," Duncan answered.

Phillippe stepped back from the door to let Duncan enter the baking area. "She did not come with you?" he asked. 

"No," Duncan answered. He swept a glance around the room as though he might find her hiding there. "She didn't meet me, tonight. I thought you might know where she is."

Marie walked in from the front of the shop, carrying empty baking trays in her hand. "Where who is?" she asked, then she stopped when she saw Duncan. 

She smiled at him as she tucked the trays under her arm, then tucked stray wisps of her hair under her cap.

Duncan couldn't help smiling back. It seemed like every time he saw her, Marie was tiding her hair. He thought it looked fine as it was, but apparently she didn't. "Leyza," he answered. "I waited for her, but she didn't show up."

"Perhaps she is ill," Phillippe suggested. "A little cold, a touch of the flu - so much going around this winter." He made a tsking sound with his tongue as he shrugged.

"She seemed fine last night," Duncan said, knowing for certain that no ordinary illness had detained her.

"Did you call her?" Marie asked.

A practical question for which Duncan had no practical answer. "I ... ah don't have her phone number," he said, a little chagrined to admit they hadn't exchanged the usual details. "I thought you could tell me how to get in touch with her."

Marie and Phillippe exchanged cryptic glances. "Leyza is a good customer, and we enjoy her company, Monsieur," Marie said with a shrug. "But there was never any need to get in touch with her. I don't even know where she lives."

At least, that explained the cryptic glances, but the revelation surprised Duncan. He'd assumed from their demeanor that Leyza and the bakers were close friends. Now he didn't know what to do.

He said good-bye, then turned to leave, but Phillippe and Marie insisted that he stay - at least long enough to have a cup of coffee. They took a break from their chores as they did every morning and sat with him awhile. Neither one seemed overly concerned about Leyza's absence - but they had no knowledge of headhunting Immortals.

"She used to come in every morning about 7 am - always dressed in jogging clothes - always slightly out of breath," Marie said, by way of explaining their relationship with Leyza.

"Then one morning last ... spring, I think," Phillippe picked up the tale, glancing at Marie for confirmation.

She nodded. "We heard someone knocking at the front door ... way too early for a customer."

"I went to the door to see who it could be, and Leyza was standing outside," Phillippe continued.

"She looked very upset," Marie chimed in. "Her hair was a mess. Her clothes were streaked with dirt, and she seemed confused."

"I let her in," Phillippe said. "We insisted that she have some coffee and tell us what happened."

"She mumbled something about an accident," Marie added. "She said a friend had been killed."

"She didn't want to talk about it," Phillippe said. "But we assumed she and this friend had been involved in some kind of automobile accident."

"We offered to call someone," Marie said. "But Leyza said she was all right - that she just needed a few minutes to rest."

Duncan sat quietly toying with the handle of his coffee cup, while the Vachon's told their tale. He suspected that Leyza's _accident_ had been no accident at all. A beheading and a Quickening was a more likely explanation. But the bakers had no way of knowing that. And he wondered who had died - wondered who she had killed.

"A few days later, she knocked at the door again," Phillippe continued. "She said she couldn't sleep, so she went for a walk."

"She wanted to buy a few croissants and a loaf of bread," Marie interrupted, then she shook her head. "I told her it was dangerous to be walking around the city alone in the middle of the night, but she laughed and said she could take care of herself."

"We invited her in for a cup of coffee and she's been stopping by every morning since," Phillippe finished the story.

Duncan thanked them for sharing the story and for their kindness. He gave them his phone number so they could contact him if they heard from her, then he left.

The walk back to the barge seemed longer and colder than it usually did when he was still warmed by Leyza's glow. And he wondered again who she had killed, and where she was now.


	8. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 8

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 8

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Leyza raked her fingers through her hair and poked a bit of charred rubble with her toe to uncover a blackened potsherd. She bent to pick it up, then brushed some of the soot off the etched design with her thumb.

"That's one of Nicole's," the man standing next to her said, gently as he took it from her hand.

"I'm so mad, I feel like I'm going to explode," Leyza hissed. She kicked a burnt timber to vent some of her anger, but it didn't help much. All she got out of the inadequate gesture was a bruised toe and a scuffed sneaker. 

"If Jeremy Cole wants me, let him come after me. This ... this--" She bit her lower lip, as she swept her hand to indicate the ruins surrounding her. "Was so unnecessary. Such a waste."

Leyza's companion was shorter than she by an inch or two. He had clear blue eyes, a salting of grey in the dark hair at his temples, and a careworn face with an olive complexion that hinted at Latin genes. 

"The police think it was an accident," he said as he took her elbow, then he urged her to the edge of the burned building. "Faulty wiring on one of the kilns, they said. If Theresa hadn't decided that she needed another look at her latest creation, the whole place could have gone up."

"Poor Theresa," Leyza said. "She must be devastated She worked so hard on that piece." 

Dragging her fingers through her hair again, Leyza sighed as she glanced around what remained of this wing of the country manor she'd converted to a school for artisans 146 years ago. Her heart ached as she watched a small group of students pick their way through the rubble. She didn't know all their names, but she knew how each one felt as they searched for pieces of their work that might not have been damaged in the fire.

"What will you do?" the man asked.

Leyza sighed again, then she shrugged as she turned away from the heart-wrenching sight. "Rebuild. What else can I do? Where would they go?" she asked, tilting her head toward the knot of the apprentices who were now gathered around something they had found. One waved with excitement, as he called some of the others over to check it out.

With that small image of hope etched in her mind, Leyza brushed her hands together to knock some of the soot off them, then she strode across the courtyard toward the undamaged portion of the building.

The man hurried to catch up with her. He chuckled softly as he walked beside her. "I wasn't talking about your one woman effort to save the crafts of the past, Querida. I was talking about Jeremy Cole. Will you go after him?"

Leyza stopped. She grasped the man's arm to stop him as well, then she shook her head. "We've known each other over 30 years, Raymond, and you still don't know the answer to that question?"

She searched his eyes, and found concern flickering in their depths. A worried frown creased his brow. She touched it lightly with her fingertips to ease it away, then she stroked his cheek. "No," she said. "I'm not going after Jeremy. What's done is done."

"But he could have burned the whole place down. He could have destroyed everything you've worked for ... this place that you love so much," Raymond insisted, waving his arms. The concern melted into anger, and his eyes burned with a fierce fire.

"And I killed someone he loved. Now we're even."

"But you had no choice ... Solange tried to kill you." 

Leyza's smile took on a grim curve. "Several times," she said, biting her lip as she remembered every instance. "If only there had been another way. If only I could have gotten through to her."

"You couldn't have - she wouldn't listen. She would have kept coming."

With sad resignation, Leyza shrugged her shoulders. "She's dead, now, so we'll never know - will we?"

She couldn't bring herself to tell Ray that Solange had begged for death. She knew he wouldn't understand. Like so many mortals, he found her Immortality fascinating. He thought it was a wonderful gift, and most times it was. But there were other times when it was simply a curse.

Ray ran a hand over his close cropped curly hair while he paced a small circuit before her. He clenched his fists as he turned to face her again. "You can't let him get away with this."

"I can and I will," she said in a soft voice to soothe the anger she saw building in him. "Revenge is not the answer, Ray. Revenge is what got us here in the first place. Let it be."

After inhaling deeply, he let the breath out with a low growl. "I can't," he snapped. "Cole did this to hurt you. How can I let him get away with it?"

She caught his wrist and held it tightly in her grasp. "You have to, Ray. Jeremy Cole is an Immortal - there's nothing you can do. You have to let it be," she whispered. 

"I know," he said, flatly. "But I don't have to like it." Frustration carved jagged lines at the edges of his mouth. Leyza reached out to soothe them, but he turned away. 

She watched him stomp across the courtyard, knowing she had to let him work out his anger in his own way, hoping he could curb his temper. Hoping he wouldn't do something foolish, as he had done the night they met.

* * * * 

It was October of 1969 on a night that was cold, but clear. An enormous hunter's moon, floating high above, lit the way as Leyza moved with stealth through a rubble strewn lot on Manhattan's north end. Although it was just past 2 am, this city of nearly 8 million people never slept soundly. Voices rising in anger mingled with the muted blare of TV's and radios, before they drifted down from the buildings that lined the lot on the left. 

The boarded-up building on the right looked like it had been abandoned for quite some time. Smoke stains blackened the bricks around some of the window frames and a few of the boards hung loose. Leyza shook off a tremor of anxiety as she moved deeper into the lot. Now, it probably housed a dozen junkies and runaways.

Somewhere nearby a dog barked. Two cats yowled at each other in a dispute over territory or breeding rights. The distant drone of traffic from the Harlem River Drive and the occasional rumble of a subway train all merged to fill the night with constant background noise. 

Closer at hand, something rustled beneath bags of trash piled against a battered dumpster. A cat perhaps, but more likely a rat. Leyza had no desire or inclination to investigate the source of the noise. She had business to attend to - Immortal business.

That was one big advantage New York City offered Immortals - the inhabitants minded their own business. If something strange was going on - they looked the other way. Not an admirable trait, perhaps, but useful in her case.

The chill wind tugged at her long dark coat. She shivered, then pulled the collar up closer to her neck. Keeping her sword at her side, she adjusted her grip and strained her ears to listen for sounds that _didn't_ belong. She let her senses search for faint traces of the other Immortal, but she felt nothing, only the cold.

Perhaps Jibhal had changed his mind about facing her. Perhaps he wouldn't come after all - though he'd seemed cocky enough earlier in the day when she'd run across him in the housewares department at Macy's. And he'd been the one to issue the challenge, but it could have been all talk.

Right now, he was probably holed up in the Waldorf or the St. Regis - watching TV and laughing because he knew she'd be waiting for him in this cold dark lot. She wouldn't put it past him - she wouldn't put much of anything past the wily 600 year old Mongolian.

When she'd first met him in the late 15th century, she'd been traveling with May-Ling through Tibet. 

Most Immortals weren't foolhardy enough to challenge two others of their kind - even though the two were women - but Jibhal had been vain and overly confident in his prowess. He soon found out that his confidence was clearly misplaced - he'd been no match for May-Ling Shen's superior skills. No match at all.

After a short skirmish, she'd relieved him of his sword, then pushed him to the edge of a cliff. Muttering curses, he'd jumped, recovered quickly, then he'd slunk off like a beaten dog as they'd watched from above. He'd escaped with the sound of their laughter ringing in his ears, and he'd never forgotten the humiliation. Never forgiven it either, apparently - he'd been after one or the other of them ever since. 

Memories crowded around Leyza and the past whispered an enticing invitation. It tempted her to shake the present and wander awhile along its shady paths. But the sound of a trash can lid disturbed by a moving foot called her back. She whirled around to face whoever had dared to sneak up on her. 

Four youths, dressed in leather jackets which all bore a gang's garish colors, spread out as they sauntered toward her. One stepped out a pace or two ahead of the rest. He wore a grimy red bandanna twisted into a tie to keep his dark curly hair out of his eyes, and he also wore an evil grin.

"Hey lady," he chirped, swaggering a bit closer to her. "Whatchu doin' out here? This is ain't a safe neighborhood. You could get hurt wandering around here in the middle of the night." He hooked the thumb of his left hand into his belt loop as he assumed a cock-sure stance.

Leyza kept the hand that held her broadsword behind her leg as she eased her feet apart. For some reason, she didn't think he was really concerned with her welfare.

"I can take care of myself," she said. 

"Oh, yeah," the punk responded with a taunting warble in his voice. In a flash of motion, he reached behind him, then flipped out a switchblade. The knife glittered menacingly in the moonlight. "You got one of these?"

Leyza couldn't resist. "No," she answered. 

Slowly, she lifted her right hand. Silver light danced over the long blade as she held it before her. "I've got one of these."

"Holy shit, man," one of the other thugs exclaimed. "She's got a sword. I ain't never seen no chick with a sword before."

The leader stepped back a pace as Leyza grasped the sword in both hands, then pointed it toward him.

"And I know how to use it," she said, letting a clear threat resonate in her voice.

The leader grinned, but he kept his distance, then he turned his head slightly. Called by his silent signal, the others moved forward.

"I ain't got no sword, and I ain't got no fancy degree," he said, "But I count four of us and only one of you. We got you outnumbered, chiquita."

Leyza glanced to the left, then to the right. She didn't need a master's degree to reckon that she was clearly outnumbered, either. But she had something far more pertinent to this situation than a drawer full of academic credentials. 

Over many centuries, she'd mastered numerous martial arts disciplines, and she knew she could probably defeat these hoodlums - all four of them - if it was necessary. But was it really necessary?

Jibhal would have been here by now if he was coming - the man had his faults, but tardiness wasn't one of them. And she really hated fighting with mortals - though it was often necessary. Her Immortality gave her such an unfair advantage. 

In this case, evasion seemed to be the wise choice. But it wasn't going to be easy.

The narrow lot had no outlet to either side, but she remembered seeing a chain link fence at the far end. The question was, could she get to it, and over before they attacked. 

Fat chance, she thought with a sigh. 

The gang members edged closer. She inched back. 

Though she fought other Immortals with a sure confidence, she really dreaded these occasional bouts with mortals. They were so fragile, and they died so easily, then their deaths weighed heavily on her conscious - even when they were asking for trouble as these kids were.

And they were just kids - she tried to remember that as the leader lunged at her. She sidestepped to avoid the blade of his knife, then she brandished her sword as she moved back toward the fence.

The others formed a semi-circle around her, then closed in. Her foot struck something. She glanced down to see the heel of her boot brushing up against a milk crate. She also saw that the fence was in reach. 

Holding her sword in one hand, she swept it in a wide arc to hold her attackers at bay. She jumped onto the crate, then leaped up to grab a handful of fence with her other hand.

"You're not getting away so easy, chica," the leader growled.

She struggled to get a foothold on the fence, but the youth got to her first. He grabbed a hold of her coat, then tried to pull her down. Instinct took over, and without even thinking, she smashed the hilt of her sword into his face. 

His nose broke and Leyza winced at the sound of the bones cracking, then she turned back to resume climbing the fence.

"Get her," the leader, snarled as he fell back, clutching his face.

Still holding onto the fence with one hand, Leyza kicked the second punk in the stomach, then winced again when the third left her no choice but to stab him in the leg with her sword. At least it wouldn't kill him.

While she was engaged with these two, the fourth grabbed her from behind, then he plunged his knife into her back. 

The blazing shock of cold steel penetrating her warm flesh left her gasping for breath. Her fingers grew numb, and she could no longer hold onto the fence. Her vision blurred as he pulled her back away from it. 

He yanked the knife free, then held the blade to her neck. Though a bristling black fog threatened to suck her under, survival instinct swelled within her. No way was she going to let some mortal punk end her Immortal life in this dark deserted lot. 

With what little strength she had left, she dropped her sword, then grasped his hand in both of hers. She sunk her teeth deep into his wrist. 

Immediately, he dropped the knife. A flicker of satisfaction and a ripple of temporary relief washed over Leyza as she slumped to the ground with his howl of pain ringing in her ears. 

The sound of running feet and voice shouting, "Hey, what's going on here?" penetrated the thick icy mist that was forming in her brain.

"Come on, Paco," one of her attackers shouted. "Somebody's coming ... we got to get out of here, man."

"The bitch bit me," Paco shouted back. "I'm gonna get her for that."

"Forget her man ... she's dead. You killed her."

The voices filtered through the mist, as Leyza fought to hold onto the life that was rapidly draining out of her. The last thing she heard was the slap of their sneakers hitting the pavement as they ran away, then she _died._


	9. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 9

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 9

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

The return to life struck Leyza hard, like a power punch to the solar plexus. When she opened her eyes, she was startled to find another pair of eyes looking back at her - pale blue eyes with a touch of hazel, not six inches from her own. 

The owner of the eyes scrambled back away from her as she gasped to fill her lungs with air.

"Oh, man, lady," he said, his eyes growing wide as the hunter's moon above. "Y-you were dead!"

Leyza felt around her, searching for her sword, as she struggled against the intense pain in her back and tried to sit up. "You'd like that wouldn't you," she snarled, thinking he was one of the gang come back to rob her. Just as her fingers touched the hilt of her sword, a coughing spasm hit.

The young man narrowed his eyes as he considered her comment. "No, way," he said, shaking his head with vehemence. "I heard the commotion and I thought I could help ... but, but ... y-you were dead ... you had no pulse, no heartbeat, nothin'."

He didn't look like any of the gang members who had attacked her, and he was wearing a frayed cloth jacket instead of a leather one. Though his face bore traces of a recent battle - a trickle of blood under his nose and a bruise beginning to blossom near his right eye - Leyza decided he meant her no harm, still she kept her sword by her side. 

"Do I look dead?" she asked. Her breathing eased, her heartbeat returned to normal, and the pain in her back ebbed as the wound healed.

The young man scuttled back a bit more as she finally managed to sit. She reached into her coat to check for her wallet. It was still there. She let out a long breath with a sigh of relief - at least she wouldn't have to gather a fresh set of identification. That was always such a bother when your ID was forged in the first place.

From a safe distance, the youth studied her - at least Leyza assumed he'd decided the space between them was safe, since he didn't run away.

"I work in the ER at Columbia Presbyterian," he said, slowly. "I'm only an orderly, but I see dead people all the time. You were definitely dead."

"Thank you for the diagnosis, Dr. Kildare," Leyza said with a weak smile. "But I'm not dead."

She took a deep breath and watched him as she tried to think of a plausible explanation. Just the way he was looking at her told her that he wasn't going off without one. One last spasm shook her, and she began coughing again.

Her Good Samaritan grew bolder. He crept closer, then knelt at her side, and patted her on the back

"I'm okay ... falling just knocked the wind out of me," Leyza lied. She eased away from his ministrations, hoping he hadn't seen the damage the knife must have done to her coat.

But she was too late. When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were covered with blood - her blood.

"Oh, shit lady," he exclaimed. "There's blood - you're hurt bad." He scrambled to his feet. "I gotta call an ambulance."

"I don't need an ambulance," she insisted, then she grabbed at his ankle to stop him.

He knelt beside her again. "You do. You need a doctor ... you're bleeding and probably in shock," he said, gently taking her hand off his ankle. He removed his jacket, wadded it up into a pillow, then he pushed on her shoulder. "Lay down ... and don't move ... I'll be right back."

Leyza shrugged his hand off. "No doctors," she said. "It's just a scratch. I'm fine." Keeping her sword hidden in the folds of her coat, she stood. "See? Right as rain."

The young man glanced down at the blood on his hands, then up at the evidence to the contrary standing before him. He shook his head. "No way," he said, slowly, then he held his hand up for her to see. "It's not possible ... all this blood ... and you were dead."

While he was glancing down at his hand once more, Leyza tucked her sword away. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket, then handed it to him. "Here," she said. 

When he didn't move, she reached out, took his hand in hers, then wiped the blood off it. "I'm not dead," she said. "But if you hadn't come along when you did, I might have been."

A lie, but maybe not. She didn't know what would have happened to her if the punk had cut her throat deeply - even if he'd left her head attached to her body. Possibly a very long temporary death or a nasty scar at the very least. But she was glad she didn't have to find out. Not first hand anyway.

Her would-be-rescuer took the handkerchief, then continued to wipe the blood from his hands. Leyza clutched his upper arm, then tightened her grasp. 

"Most people would have run the other way," she said. "I want to thank you for stopping to help. What's your name?"

"Raymond," he said, finally looking up at her with a thousand questions adding a gleam of curiosity to his eyes. "Raymond Garcia."

"Well, I don't know about you, Raymond, but I need a drink and I'm starving, too. Will you join me so we can talk about a proper reward?" She took his arm, then began guiding him to the street.

"I wasn't lookin' for no reward, miss," he said. "I was just tryin' to help ... you know?"

His voice had a soft dream-like quality and Leyza could well imagine what kind of thoughts were running through his mind. She'd bet it wasn't every day, he saw a dead person come back to life. And she had no doubt that he was convinced she had been dead.

"Don't be silly," she insisted. "Good deeds always deserve a reward, and please ... call me Leyza."

"I don't-" he began, then he let out a gasp. "Oh shit, man!" He broke free of her hold on his arm, then he ran to the front of the lot.

Leyza followed, and she quickly realized what had caused him such great distress.

A large black portfolio of the kind artists carry, lay open in the dirt. This one was old, scuffed up and had a broken zipper. Several of the sketches and drawings it contained had been caught by the wind. They twirled on strong currents of air, then danced away across the lot. Raymond dropped to his knees to close the case, then he began snatching at the artwork that had blown away.

"When they was runnin' away," he said, while she rushed to join him. "They knocked me down. We had a little scuffle." He grinned as he made punching motions with his fists. "Then I saw you layin' there, and I ... I didn't think."

"You could have been hurt," she said, remembering the blood on his nose and the bruise on his eye ... and the knives all the gang members had carried.

She picked up two of the sketches, then noticed an abstract done in acrylics on canvas board that had slipped from the case. She held it in the pale pool of light the street lamp cast at the edge of the lot, and studied it. 

The work was raw and unpolished, but it had an energy and power that took her breath away. Though the execution was rough, his use of color gave it an ethereal quality that lifted it way above the banal dabblings of many unschooled artists. And she was certain that Raymond Garcia had little or no formal training. She could see it in the innocent exuberance of his work. 

As she examined it with a practiced eye, she could discern faces among the swirling swaths of color - faces of street people drawn in an elongated style. They looked like wraiths escaping from some confinement at the left side of the picture. 

A hand moved into her line of vision - Ray's hand grasping the upper edge of the canvas board. "I call it Freedom," he said softly.

She let him take the board, then she picked up another. The image he had created here seethed with anger, rage and wild jagged splashes of red, yellow and orange. She wondered what event in his life might have inspired it. 

"There's this dude - Picasso," he said. "I saw his stuff in the museum ... just blew me away, you know. Sometimes, I try to do stuff like his."

Leyza chuckled softly. Ray might not have the vocabulary to describe his idol, but the rapturous look on his face spoke volumes. Clearly he'd found a hero worth worshipping. "Have you had any lessons?" she asked.

A frown crimped his brow, as he stuffed the sketches and the two paintings back into the case. "Lessons?" he said. "Whatchu mean lessons?"

"Art lessons," she answered. 

His soft laugh contained little humor. "Not many art teachers hangin' around the projects."

"Well, I meant in school," Leyza said.

"I don't have much use for school," he mumbled. "Teachers always buggin' you about homework and shit. 'Sides, I gotta work to help my mother."

"Come, on," she said, taking his arm once more. "Let's get something to eat, and I'll tell you all about the reward, I have in mind."

* * * * 

Leyza stood at the window of her quarters and watched her students mill around in the rubble of the burned wing. The rising sun bathed the sad scene with golden light and thin rays of hope. As she leaned her forehead against the glass, she saw Ray cross the courtyard to join the others, and the tension, that had gripped her since he walked away from her earlier, drained. He wouldn't go after Jeremy Cole - not today anyway. They would talk again, and she would convince him to leave it alone as she'd convinced him to come with her to France over 30 years ago.

Though sorely tempted by her offer and clearly intrigued by the mystery of her return to life, he refused at first. He had to care for his mother, he'd insisted. 

"She ain't got nobody else," Ray had told her while he wolfed down a mass of scrambled eggs and a stack of pancakes nearly as tall as a skyscraper, then washed it down with a river of coffee.

"Her parents were Russian immigrants and they were really pissed when she married a Puerto Rican. They ain't talked to her in years. Then my old man split when my brother Denis pulled a knife on him to keep the bastard from beating her."

Denis had been his only brother, Ray had explained, and older by three years. He'd bowed his head, and his voice had cracked when he also told her that Denis had died of a drug overdose when he was fifteen.

Leyza had gone with him to talk to his mother - a kind woman with weary blue eyes who worked too hard and worried too much about her son - then she'd brought both of them with her to France.

Though Ray Garcia's paintings now sported six figure price tags, he'd remained at the school. Some years ago he'd assumed most of the administrative duties which allowed Leyza time to do what she loved - time to pass on the skills she'd learned through nearly 2000 years of practice.

For her there was no question - she would repair the damage Jeremy Cole had wrought. She would forgive the senseless act and his hunger for revenge. And she would try to forgive herself, as well, for killing Solange.

* * * * 

For the next three nights Duncan walked to the bridge. He worried and paced as he waited in vain, then he went to the bakery at the usual time hoping that Leyza had been in touch with Phillippe and Marie, but the Vachons had not heard from her either.

The first two nights he dropped by, Phillippe and Marie seemed unconcerned. They plied him with coffee and croissants while they reasoned away Leyza's absence with suppositions that she'd been called away on business. Or that she'd come down with a cold or the flu. All logical assumptions, if you had no knowledge of Immortals. 

But for Duncan, fear and a lurking dread that another Immortal was involved nibbled around the edges of all that logic. He couldn't shake it.

Last night, he'd noted a trace of unease glimmering in Marie's soft grey eyes. Even as she murmured reassurances, he'd heard a faint disquiet in her voice. "Have you called the police?" she asked as she set a cup of coffee before him.

He shook his head. "I really don't have anything to tell them," he said with a rueful smile. 

What _could_ he tell them? That he'd met an attractive woman on the Pont St. Louis in the middle of the night? That they'd talked for hours about art, philosophy and music? That they'd discussed the ebb and flow of Immortality and the burdens it brought - but that they hadn't exchanged phone numbers or addresses? No - the police would want hard facts, and he had none to offer.

"How about the hospitals?" Phillippe asked, calmly exploring all avenues. 

"I made a few calls," Duncan lied. "She's not in any of the hospitals."

"Well, there you see," Marie said, patting his hand. Her smile was reassuring, but her eyes still carried a shimmer of concern. "Then it must be business of some sort."

As he returned to the barge, Duncan let his frustration and concern for Leyza fall back on himself. He shouldn't have been so casual about their relationship - but it had fit his needs. No strings, no obligations - just two people meeting in the night like passing trains.

The eddy of lethargy that he'd been caught in since defeating Ahriman prevented him from seeking more than the comfortable companionship he'd found with her. It had been so easy to simply accept whatever tidbits fell from the table of life - so easy to drift along in Leyza's quiet stream.

He clenched his fists and jammed them deep into his coat pockets as he crossed the quay. The Duncan MacLeod he'd been in the past would never have let an intriguing possibility slip out of his grasp. He would have seized it with both hands and embraced it. He would have explored it to its farthest horizon.

A storm of frustration raged within him as the Duncan of old clashed with the Duncan he had become. His footfalls echoed, thumping in a doleful drumbeat as he stomped up the gangway intent on--

Then he stopped. Intent on what? He had no plan. No course of action. Nothing to do but wait. Nowhere to go but to that damned bridge every night. Nothing but a great maw of passivity sucking him down.

He slammed the side of his fist into the wall of the wheelhouse. A sharp snap of pain shot up his wrist. The throbbing ache shouted, _dumb thing to do._ Punishing his hand was certainly no solution to his problem. Then reason rushed to his rescue, and he began to laugh. 

He lifted his arms into the air and whirled around. To the casual observer he would seem quite mad, but he didn't care. He could feel again!

Granted, the emotion was anger - not the best one to start with. But anything was better than the noose of numbness that had nearly strangled him. He sat down on the cabin roof to catch his breath and think. He couldn't let these reborn emotions control him - he would have to take charge and channel them into constructive action. He needed a plan.


	10. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 10

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 10

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Later that day, Duncan strolled into Joe's at the same time he'd been dropping by for the last month - a little past noon. The plan he'd formed earlier lay neatly sketched out in his mind. He was ready for action, but he needed one more piece of information.

At the sound of the door opening, Joe looked up, then a smile of recognition brightened his face. "Hey MacLeod - I was just thinking about you!"

Duncan crossed to the bar, then leaned his arm on the dark polished surface. "Should I start running now?" he asked with a grin.

Joe chuckled softly as he shook his head. "Only if you want to chase down that snooty wine merchant for me."

"What's he done now?"

"I'm not sure, but I think he's trying to pull a fast one on me. I ordered one thing - at least I think I did - and he delivered something else - wine that wasn't as good ... at the same price I'd agreed to pay for the better stuff. He's so slick - he could be a master at Three Card Monte."

Duncan laughed. "Perhaps it's time to look for a new supplier."

"Yeah, maybe," Joe agreed. "But everyone tells me he's the best guy to deal with. If he is, I'd hate to see the rest."

"Well, if there's anything I can do, let me know," Duncan offered.

"I will," Joe said. He spun a mug onto the bar, then reached behind him for the coffee carafe. "Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot."

Duncan considered the offer for a moment. Though he and Joe had mended the bridges between them, Duncan still wasn't sure if the fix would hold the weight of what he needed to ask. 

Joe had done so much for him throughout the ordeal with Ahriman. He had sent Watchers into the fray, and they had died. Ahriman had offered to restore Joe's legs, and Joe had refused the tempting offer because the price had been Duncan's life. 

But most of all Joe had believed in him at a time when he wasn't even sure he believed in himself. The debt he already owed would take several lifetimes to pay back, and yet, here he was about to ask another favor - something he promised himself he wouldn't do. To put his plan in motion, he needed something stronger than coffee - something like a healthy shot of liquid courage.

"I'd-a ... rather have a single malt," he said, drumming restless fingers on the bar.

Joe lifted one eyebrow at the request, but he pushed the mug aside, then slid a glass into its place. He snagged a bottle from the shelf behind him, then poured two fingers of pale amber liquor into the glass.

"Cheers," he said tapping his coffee mug against the side of the glass.

"Cheers," Duncan said in return. He lifted the glass to his mouth, but he didn't take a drink. Instead he set the glass down again, then he stared at his hand as he ran his finger around the rim. "Joe ... I ah--"

Before he could finish, fingers pushing a folded square of paper invaded his narrow line of sight. He didn't touch the paper, but he looked up to find Joe wearing a wide grin. The Watcher's gentle grey eyes twinkled with mirth. 

Joe pushed the paper across the bar until it touched Duncan's glass. "Take it," he said softly.

Duncan picked up the paper as though it might be an unexploded bomb. He didn't open it. "What is it?" he asked.

Joe chuckled as he reached for a bar rag. "Something I thought you might want."

Duncan opened the paper slowly. Inside he found an address scrawled in Joe's familiar handwriting. No name - just an address. He didn't have to ask whose address it was.

"How did you know--"

"I'm your Watcher, MacLeod," Joe replied before Duncan could complete the question. "I know everything there is to know about you - remember?"

Duncan glanced down at the paper in his hand as he nodded, then he smiled. A wry smile with a grim twist. Yeah, he remembered, though most times he preferred to forget. 

It was extremely disconcerting to know someone was watching and recording every detail of your life. Most of the time he pushed the knowledge to the back of his mind - the only way he could deal with it - but now and then something popped up to remind him. Something like this.

He refolded the paper and tapped it on the bar letting it slide through his thumb and forefinger, then he turned it over and tapped it again. He should thank Joe and be on his way. He should rush off to find Leyza ... but what would he find? Earlier he was sure he wanted to know - now with the prospect at hand he wasn't quite so certain.

Of one thing, he was certain - the pre-Ahriman Duncan wouldn't have had any doubts. That Duncan would have charged off, sword in hand, colors flying, into the unknown. But the Duncan he was now asked too damn many questions.

What if Leyza didn't want to be found? What if she was married, or involved with someone? Perhaps she and her lover had had an argument. Perhaps that was why she walked the night away.

And what if she was dead? Would he seek out the Immortal who had killed her? Would he take up his sword again? Take up where he had left off - seeking revenge - seeking to right every wrong?

As he stared at the smudged white square in his hand, he remembered something. "I thought you didn't want to play cupid," he mumbled.

Joe's response was a muffled snort. "So sue me," he said. Though there was nothing on the bar to wipe up, he swabbed the shiny surface near the glass of whiskey. 

Duncan glanced up to catch Joe grinning at him again. 

"You know something ... you worry too much, MacLeod," Joe said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "She's fine. Now, stop moping around my bar and go see her. I've got work to do."

More than a little self-conscious, Duncan grinned back. Had he been that obvious? Or did Joe really know him better than he knew himself? He sighed as he stepped back from the bar. Better not to know the answer to that question. 

He picked up the glass, then drank the whiskey in one swallow. It was false courage - he knew that - but the liquid fire of it burning in his stomach had the effect of a catalyst.

"Thanks, Joe," he said as he extended his hand. Joe took it, and when Duncan slid his hand up to grasp Joe's forearm, Joe mirrored his actions. 

"I owe you so--" Duncan tried to express the enormous gratitude he felt, but adequate words refused to rise to the occasion. "If there's ever anything I can do ..."

"There is," Joe said. He released his grip, then backed away. Picking up his empty coffee mug and Duncan's glass, he carried them over to a sink filled with soapy water.

"Name it," Duncan said.

"Get out of here - I've got work to do."

Duncan smiled as he shook his head. Even if they couldn't find the words, the sentiments had been conveyed. "See ya, Joe," he said.

"See ya, Mac," Joe answered without looking up from his task.

* * * * * 

The neighborhood Duncan walked through was in an older part of the city. Most of the buildings had a tired look about them. Like old people feeding pigeons in the park, they looked weary and a little worn around the edges, yet they clung stubbornly to their pride and the knowledge that they had a rich history to sustain them.

New buildings stood shoulder to shoulder with the old. The bright shiny columns of steel and glass rose impudently above their elders. Clearly this was a neighborhood in transition, though which way it was going couldn't be guessed from casual observation.

Though he had memorized its contents, Duncan glanced at the paper in his hand, noting the numbers on the buildings as he passed each one. He paused before number 216, then checked the paper again. The number Joe had written matched the number on a brass plaque mounted on the wall before him.

Though the wall was crumbling in places and patched in others, the iron gate set in the center had a fresh coat of black paint and ornate brass fittings. The brass had been polished to a rich sheen, and the gate stood open inviting him into the courtyard. Duncan stepped up to the opening, then he hesitated. 

Doubts circled around like buzzards - great ugly birds with a hunger for carrion. What if Leyza didn't want to be found? What if she didn't want to see him? He took a deep breath and willed the doubts away, then he concentrated his senses. He waited for the tingle of Immortal presence, but all he felt was the tepid breath of a spring breeze sifting through his hair. Perhaps she wasn't even home.

Marble chips covered most of the small courtyard. Tidy garden beds lined both sides, and neatly trimmed bushes skirted the front of the grey stone house. Bricks dappled with deep green moss and set in a herringbone pattern formed a walk that led up to four granite steps. He took a deep breath, then followed it.

Judging by the late Rococo style of the three story house, Duncan guessed that it had stood in this spot since the reign of Louis XVI. He wondered if Leyza had owned it then. Had she lived here during the French Revolution? And if she had, how had she survived the Reign of Terror when so many people had lost their heads?

As he remembered, Paris in those days had been extremely dangerous for Immortals. Those with ties to the aristocracy were in as much danger of dying in the hands of the rebels as were their mortal friends.

Thoughts of the guillotine and its unmerciful blade triggered an itch at the back of his neck. Other memories surfaced as well. He scratched away the itch as he paused before tall glass-paned doors, but he let the memories linger while he rang the bell. It was easier to think about the past than an uncertain future.

Images of Gina DeValincourt and Fitzcairn scampered through his mind. He smiled as he remembered riding off with them to rescue Gina's beloved Robert from the guillotine. They'd been lucky - they'd survived, but so many others hadn't. 

After a few moments, a face peered at him from behind the glass. A pretty round moon face with almond-shaped eyes - an Asian face. Definitely not Leyza. Duncan forced his concentration back to the present, then he smiled when the young woman opened the door.

"Oui?" she said, hesitantly, but she swept him with a sharp glance of appraisal that took in every detail.

"Bonjour," he said. "I'm Duncan MacLeod." 

She stared at him with a blank expression. Apparently his name meant nothing to her. Then again, he thought, perhaps she was just skilled at masking her thoughts. "I'm looking for Leyza Berard," he continued.

"May I tell her the nature of your business, Monsieur?"

"Er ... it's not business ... it's ... ah, personal."

The woman considered him for a long moment, then she stepped back to let him in.

"Please have a seat," she said in flawless French. "I'll just be a moment."

She directed him to an old, but meticulously waxed church pew that stood on the right wall of the spacious foyer, then she hurried off toward the back of the house.

Duncan gave the pew with its Gothic-style arches and worn blue velvet cushion a cursory glance, but he chose to stand while he inspected the hall. He'd learned over the years that a person's home could tell you things about them that they might not tell you about themselves. 

Leyza's home seemed grand, but not so grand that it felt pretentious. Warm cozy touches diluted the grandeur and whispered _welcome_ with a gracious smile. 

An elaborate marble balustrade guided a wide staircase up through the three story entrance hall. From somewhere high above - a skylight, he presumed - sunlight streamed down filling the space with soft diffused light.

With a theatrical sense of presentation, the light fell on a clear crystal vase filled with three shades of pink tulips. The vase sat in the center of a wrought iron glass-topped table, and was surrounded by a gaggle of knickknacks. 

As he strolled around on his inspection tour, he clasped his hands behind his back. He wondered if the table had been set in that spot because that's where the light fell, or if the placement had simply been a serendipitous choice. Knowing what he did know of Leyza Berard, it had probably been an amalgam of the two.

Just a quick turn around the foyer answered one of the questions he'd had about her earlier. She obviously had substantial wealth, for nothing his trained eyes could see had come from the local discount store. 

The stately grandfather clock bore chisel marks that indicated it had been hand carved. The Venetian glass sconces, though not old, appeared to be hand blown. And from just a casual glance, he knew the Aubusson carpet under the table was of the highest quality, not a machine-made copy.

He moved closer to get a better look at the pattern of the carpet when a stirring near the staircase caught his attention. He passed the table and stepped over to check it out. 

A large black cat of indeterminate parentage rose from its perch on the flat end of the balustrade. It bent into a deep stretch, then pinned him with an inscrutable stare.

"Hello kitty," he whispered approaching it cautiously.

The cat's ears twitched as it tested the sound of his voice. It blinked once, regarded him for a moment with one eye closed, then ignored him as it proceeded to wash its face. Apparently, the cat was unconcerned with the presence of a stranger in its domain. Still Duncan kept his eye on it as he moved deeper into the hall to check out something else that had caught his eye.

He'd always found cats to be unpredictable, and he didn't want to startle this one into leaping on him with its claws drawn. The last thing he needed was an encounter with an angry cat.

What he'd noted, when the cat's movement drew his attention to it, was a suit of dress armor of the kind knights wore to court. It stood guard at the side of the stairs, and a closer inspection made him smile. 

The piece was a splendid example of Renaissance craftsmanship in prime condition. The embossed and mercury gilded helmet closely mimicked a man's visage. What made Duncan smile was that it also sported a mustache with jauntily curled tips. He chuckled softly as he imagined how delighted Leyza must have been to find such a spectacular bit of whimsy. 

Footfalls echoing from his right warned him that he was no longer alone. He suppressed his laughter, assumed a more serious expression, then turned toward the sound.

When he didn't sense another Immortal, he knew the Asian woman had returned alone. Perhaps Leyza didn't want to see him after all. Still he managed to hide his disappointment and greet the young woman with a smile.

"Leyza will see you in the garden," she said returning his smile. "It's this way."

She tipped her head to indicate the doorway she had just come through, then without waiting for a response, she turned and headed back the way she had come. Duncan trailed along behind her, peering into the open doors of the rooms as they passed. 

One door led to a dining room. Fresh flowers and unlit candles in silver holders topped a large dark gleaming table. On the other side, was a well-stocked library with a fireplace. Nothing surprising or unexpected there. The style of the furnishings fit the impressions he'd garnered in the entrance hall. Though elegant, Leyza's house was definitely a home not a showplace, and it was one he could feel comfortable in.

The young woman stopped before a set of glass doors that duplicated the ones in the front of the house. "The garden is through here," she said with a sweep of her hand, then she reached for the curved brass handle on one of the doors. "Leyza's just finishing her exercise routine."

Duncan took a moment to speculate on the young woman's place in the household. At first, he thought she might be a servant or a personal assistant, but as he took a second look at her, he wasn't so sure.

She simply didn't have the submissive demeanor of a servant. Though she couldn't have been more than 5 feet in height, she stood tall, and regarded him with a bold look that he couldn't quite fathom. Her dark eyes twinkled with a speculative gleam, and he suspected she knew more than she let on.

The expensive turquoise silk blouse, the soft dark pants and the gold earrings she wore didn't belong to a servant either - at least not any servant he'd ever encountered. But he didn't have any more time to dwell on this mystery, for as she opened the door, he was immediately surrounded by the swelling drone of another Immortal. 

Even as deeply embedded instincts sounded fight-or-flight warning signals, his thoughts shifted quickly to Leyza. She was here - now, he had no doubt.

"Thank you," he said, smiling. He nodded a casual good-bye, then he stepped through the door.


	11. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 11

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 11

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Three marble steps led down to a landing and another set of glass-paned doors. Duncan pulled one of the doors open, then stepped out into the strong sunlight with caution. Though he was reasonably sure Leyza was the Immortal he felt, and reasonably certain she wasn't after his head, it never hurt to be cautious.

He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light, then he swept a glance around the garden. It was larger than he'd expected, and walled on three sides. Much of the foliage and many of the flower beds already showed signs of rebirth after a long winter's death. 

Bright yellow daffodils and tulips in several colors bobbed in the slight breeze. Three sizable cherry trees wore long veils of pink petals, and stalwart evergreens added a lush backdrop of green. But the star of the garden was a large fountain that held court in the center.

Five fat-limbed cherubs stood at the top, spilling water from ewers into a series of scalloped bowls below them. It was a little too flamboyant for Duncan's taste, but like the mustached suit of armor, he suspected it was the kind of piece Leyza would find amusing.

As she again entered his thoughts, he realized that Leyza was nowhere in sight. Still she had to be here somewhere. He strode along a brick path from the door down to where the path split around the fountain, then he followed the left tine of the fork.

That's when he saw her. Comfortably clad in dark blue loose-fitting trousers, a matching top and a black quilted vest, she sat on a wide stone bench at the far end of the garden. Her legs were folded into a lotus, and as far as he could tell her eyes were closed. She looked so peaceful, he was tempted to turn and leave rather than disturb her. But then he remembered - if he could sense her, she would have sensed him, as well, so he'd already disturbed her.

As he got closer Duncan could see that she was not alone as he had initially thought. Two more cats, obviously soaking up the sun, lay sprawled on a bench nearby. One twitched a tail and watched him through slanted eyes as he approached. The other seemed to ignore him, but he doubted that was the case. 

A dog, who had chosen to lounge in the shade of the bench rather than in the sun like the cats, lifted a shaggy head when Duncan closed to within two feet of Leyza's bench. The dog - a mixed breed who could claim a husky or a shepherd as one of its ancestors - made a low rumbling sound deep in its throat. Not quite a growl, but a warning nonetheless. 

Duncan stopped. Leyza still sat with her eyes closed - not a muscle twitched. Taking care not to startle the dog, he crouched down. "Hey boy," he said, holding his hand out so the dog could smell him. "Its okay - I'm not going to hurt anyone."

"Girl," Leyza corrected him. "Sadie's a female."

"Sorry," Duncan said, smiling. Satisfied that her mistress was in no danger, Sadie let him scratch her head. "Hard to tell from this angle."

Leyza laughed softly, and Duncan cherished the sound. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it. 

She lifted her arms above her head, clasped her wrist, then leaned into a stretch like one of her cats. "I found her on Sadie Hawkins Day," she said. "She'd been badly mistreated, then abandoned. Or perhaps she'd run away. How did you find me?"

Wondering if he'd ever get used to Leyza's conversational zigs and zags, Duncan shook his head as he stood. "I have some connections," he said.

"Well, they must be good ones." Leyza patted the bench next to her - an invitation for him to sit. "I like my privacy, and I work very hard at not being found."

"So I noticed" he said with a small sigh as he sat down, then turned to her with a grin. "And yes, my connections are good ones." 

He hoped he wouldn't have to explain about Joe and the Watchers - he wasn't even sure if she knew about the Watchers. But she didn't ask. She simply returned his grin, and his concerns vanished in the warm glow that washed over him.

They sat for a few moments in serene silence, broken only by the faint chirping of some birds building a nest in one of the trees. Then Leyza inhaled deeply and stretched again. "It's a glorious day, isn't it?" she asked.

Duncan leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees, then he clasped his hands before him. He nodded in response to her question, but he didn't want to talk about the weather. He sensed she didn't either - but perhaps that was all they _could_ talk about.

Staring down at his hands, he took a deep breath, then let it out on the wings of a sigh. "I missed you," he said. Barely above a whisper, his voice cracked under the sudden weight of the sentiment. He hadn't meant to say that, but the unexpected swell of emotion had ambushed him.

Silence spun out between them like shock waves after an explosion. It lasted just a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Then Leyza slid her hand up his back.

She squeezed his shoulder with a gentle kneading touch. "Oh Duncan," she said, her mouth close enough so he could feel her breath on his neck. 

Resting her chin on his shoulder, she drew soothing circles on his back with her hand. "I'm sorry ... but I was so upset when Raymond called about the fire ... I thought about the students and about how heartbroken they would be with all their hard work destroyed ... I just rushed down there ... I forgot you were waiting for me." 

Conflicting emotions kept breaking over him one after the other like waves in a storm tossed sea. He didn't want her pity. And he wasn't even sure that's what she was offering. He had no idea what she wanted from him - nor was he sure what _he_ wanted from her. Nothing stayed put anymore. Needs and desires - everything he used to be so sure of - kept shifting under his feet. He felt like he was walking the deck of a ship on that same storm tossed sea.

He eased away from her, then he stood before her, shuffling his feet. "It's okay," he said. "It's not like we had an appointment or anything."

"Duuncan," Leyza said in a light teasing voice as she caught his hand.

He blinked, shook his head, then looked down at her. For a moment, for a very brief moment, she sounded almost like Tessa. Her voice was different, deeper than Tessa's, but she drew his name out with the same slightly exasperated tone Tessa always used whenever she thought he was taking things too seriously.

Leyza tugged his hand, and he smiled as he sank down next to her again. When she threaded her fingers through his, he sighed and tried to quell his confused thoughts.

"I really am sorry," she said, plucking at the sleeve of his light coat with the fingers of her other hand. "With the fire and all the confusion ... I forgot ... and afterward - when I remembered, I didn't know how to get in touch with you."

"I was worried about you," he said, softly ... not looking at her. He didn't trust himself to look at her. Not yet anyway. "And so were Phillippe and Marie - you could have called them." Try as he might, he couldn't keep the slight hint of accusation out of his voice. 

"That's it," Leyza said, standing abruptly. "Pour on the guilt, why don't you? I said, I was sorry." She paced before him, then she raked her bangs back from her forehead with her fingers. But when she turned to him, she was smiling. 

She sifted her fingers through his hair, then she traced the line of his jaw. "If you want me to keep in touch, you'll have to give me your phone number."

He laughed softly when she tweaked his nose. "Yeah, I guess I will," he said, then he pulled her down next to him. "Now back up and tell me about this fire. And who's Raymond?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to that question, but he had to ask.

"A friend," she answered. "I met him in New York City in 1969. I was in the midst of being mugged and he came to my rescue." Leyza smiled as she turned to face him. "He had some artwork with him, and it was really good, so I brought him over here to France so he could go to my school ... well, actually, I ended up sending him to the Sorbonne - but that's another story."

"Whoa, whoa," Duncan said, chuckling as she boarded another of her conversational express trains. "You're going way too fast - what school?"

"Oh ... didn't I tell you about the school?"

"No," he said, taking her hand as if that would slow her down. "You didn't tell me about any school."

"I run a school - and a refuge of sorts - for artisans in the Loire valley near Chateauneuf," she said, smiling. 

"I think the property may have belonged to the Chateau at one point, but that doesn't matter. I founded it 146 years ago when I realized that the Industrial Age was catching on. Everyone was entranced by machine-made goods, and so many of the hand crafts were in danger of being lost."

Leyza slipped her hand out of his grasp, then began illustrating her monologue with both hands. Duncan gave up trying to slow her down. It was like walking on a treadmill - he couldn't get anywhere.

Shifting to tuck one foot under her, she sat facing him. "I've spent so many lifetimes working at different crafts myself, I just couldn't let them die out."

In a flash of motion, she rose from the bench, then began pacing. Her eyes sparked with emerald light as she waved her hands with growing enthusiasm. Her lively spirit was so contagious, he could do nothing but sit back and let it consume him.

"I lived with glass blowers in Murano, made lace in Vienna and candles in Strasbourg. I learned to work silver from a little old man in Amsterdam and leather from a master in Florence ... oh, and I was a milliner here in Paris during the Revolution ... that's how I got this house."

Duncan shook his head and grinned. She'd done it to him again. Just when he thought he'd finally climbed aboard her train of thought, Leyza uncoupled his car. He snagged her hand, then pulled her toward him. 

"I didn't know making ladies' hats was such a lucrative trade," he said, guiding her so she stood between his knees.

"Huh?" A look of bewilderment clouded her face for a moment, then a smile chased the clouds. "Silly," she said, tugging on his earlobe. "I was successful, but not that successful." 

She stepped back, and he thought about pulling her into his lap, but before he could, she sat down beside him again. He slipped his arm around her waist, and she nestled her head on his shoulder. Once more he was content. He could have sat here for the rest of the day and simply listened to her tell her tales.

"One of my best customers, Emmeline - her husband was the Baron D'Amboise," she continued, speaking slightly slower than she had before. 

"She came to me one night in tears. They'd learned from a friend that her husband was going to be arrested, so they had to leave Paris. She was heartbroken about having to leave her things behind, and they desperately needed cash for their escape ... so I offered to buy the house and smuggle what I could of her things on to her."

"That must have been hard to explain," he said, smiling as he pictured the scene.

"Oh, I didn't tell anyone about the smuggling ... well, only Pierre, but he was helping me," she said, regarding him with a wide-eyed stare.

"No," he said chuckling. "I meant about where you got the money to buy this house on a milliner's pay."

"Oh," she said with a slight frown. "You know ... Emmeline never asked me where I got the money. I guess she was too upset, then too happy to be able to recover her things ... she never thought to ask." 

Leyza stared off in the direction of the fountain for a moment, then she turned back to him and smiled. "Or perhaps I wasn't as clever at hiding my wealth, as I thought I was. Do you think she suspected?"

"I don't know," he replied, wondering how she could question such a possibility more than two centuries after it happened. "But I think you should back up and tell me about the fire."

"The fire," she said, slowly, then she stood and turned away. He could no longer see her eyes. 

"It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Only the kiln area was damaged. The fire marshal thinks it was faulty wiring."

Duncan stood, stepped to her side, then turned her around to face him. "But you don't?" he asked softly.

She nibbled at the cuticle on her thumb, then she sighed - a barely audible whisper of a sigh. "What I think is just my wild imagination working overtime," she said.

There was more to this story - he could feel it right down to the marrow of his bones, but he also knew she wasn't going to tell him. Not unless he pressured her into it. Since it was really none of his business, he should leave it alone - right? But that was easier said than done. Something was obviously bothering her. And what if she was in danger? 

While he debated with himself over whether he should or shouldn't question her further, he missed the opportunity. Loud snarls and a sharp series of guttural hisses erupted from the bench where the cats had been napping. The two faced off for a moment with teeth bared, whiskers back and tails as fat as feather boas. 

In an show of pure bravado, the smaller of the two - a grey tabby - swatted the larger one - an orange long-hair mix - then took off like a Formula 1 race car. The orange one spun its wheels, then sped after the tabby.

They circled Duncan and Leyza, then jumped onto the bench where Sadie rested in the shade. They raced across it, then leaped over to the bench where they'd started. Not wanting to be left out, the dog flicked her tail and barked loudly to let the cats know she wanted to play in their game, then she joined the chase.

"Misty, Scarlet, Sadie - stop that this instant," Leyza shouted in vain, laughing all the while.

The animals made one more circuit around them, knocking Leyza into Duncan's arms, then they headed for the fountain. Having missed one opportunity, Duncan was not going to miss another. He wrapped his arms around Leyza to keep her close. 

Though she frequently wore her long hair in a braid, today she'd simply tied it back with a ruffled elastic. As he moved his hands up her back, the silken strands spilled over his fingers. Lifting a handful, he let it pool in his palm. Her hair was warm from the sun, yet cool as it slithered though his fingers. For a moment, he lost himself in the simple pleasure, while Leyza shouted at her animals. 

They rounded the fountain, then came racing back toward the starting line for another lap.

"Sadie, get over here, this instant!" Leyza laughed as she snapped her fingers to get the dog's attention, but apparently Sadie was having too much fun. She didn't even pause as she sprinted by in pursuit of the cats.

Leyza held onto Duncan's shoulder with one hand as she leaned back against his arm to watch them over her shoulder. He thought she might break free of his embrace to run after them, but she didn't. Then the sounds of battle faded out to a few muffled snarls as the cats tired of their game. Apparently the dog was ready for another round because she continued to bark.

"That's quite a menagerie you've got," Duncan said, laughing.

"Yeah." Leyza shook her head. "There's two more cats, another dog, a blind parrot and a homeless iguana inside."

She circled her hands in restless patterns over his chest, then she moved one to the top button on his shirt. With her head tucked down, she toyed with the button. Duncan wondered if she had any idea what effect that simple action was having on him. Spirals of need coiled and uncoiled within him. He was tempted to cover her hand with his - to still those teasing fingers - but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"I seem to be a magnet for strays," she mumbled. 'I think some dog is standing on the Champs Elysee and passing out maps to my house."

Duncan thought about Raymond and the young woman he'd met in the house - and he wondered if that pertained to stray people as well. He tucked one finger under her chin, then tipped her head up so he could look into her eyes.

"Is that how you see me?" he asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"No, of course not," she said, but she wriggled out of his embrace.

Spinning away, she took two steps. "Why would I think--" she began, then she turned back to face him. Her eyes twinkled with effervescent mischief. "But on second thought--" 

She sashayed back to his side, then studied him with her hand parked on her hip. "The first time I saw you standing there on the bridge, you did have kind of a lost puppy dog look about you."

"Oh great," Duncan said, flapping his arms in exasperation, but he knew she was teasing him. "Thanks a lot."

Grasping his arms, she slid her hands up to his shoulders, then down with a light caressing touch. "No, that's not how I see you at all," she said quietly, searching his eyes. 

"I see a man filled with more than his share of sorrow. A man carrying a heavy burden of pain. Still, a man I want to know, because I can tell that he is kind and intelligent. And because he is strong and courageous."

She traced his mouth with her finger, then paused at the edge. "And because I know there's a wonderful smile hiding in here."

Duncan lifted one eyebrow as he gazed into her eyes. "Amazing," he said smiling. How could he resist? "You can tell all that from one look?"

Leyza nodded. "I've got good instincts," she said, watching her finger as she traced his mouth again. "And Madame Martuska's gift, remember?"

She leaned in to place her mouth a feather's width from his. "I missed you too," she said, then she kissed him. Just a tender kiss, a brief inviting kiss that whispered he could have more if he wanted.

And he wanted. He tightened his embrace, then deepened the kiss sinking slowly under the spell she always spun around him. Then something bumped into his leg. With great reluctance, he broke off the kiss and groaned as he glanced down.

"Rooolf," Sadie barked, then she sat down with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, and waited for the results of her bid for attention.

"I think she likes you," Leyza said, laughing.

"I think she has a lousy sense of timing," Duncan said, laughing with her.

"It's not one of her strong points," she replied. 

He tried not to let his disappointment show when Leyza straightened his coat collar, instead of resuming the kiss. "So shall we meet at the bridge tonight?" she asked, tugging on one of the collar points.

Duncan thought for a moment. It was now or never - they could continue on as they had, or he could take charge. He knew he might be able to control situation, but whether he could control Leyza was another matter entirely. Still he had to try - he'd let far too many things control him lately.

"We could," he said, watching her reactions. She was playing with his shirt buttons again. This time he did still her hand with his. "Or we could try something a little more normal for a change."

"Normal? I'm not sure what normal is," Leyza said, lifting one eyebrow. A smile teased the edges of her mouth into a curve. "What did you have in mind?"

Duncan took her hands in his, then held them out to the side. "Oh, I don't know ... dinner ... maybe a show--" He pulled her in close again. "Or a little dancing." Then he waltzed her around in a short demonstration.

"You mean like a date?" she asked, laughing softly.

"Yeah," he said, still holding her in a dancing pose. "I guess I do mean a date." Leyza rested one hand on his shoulder. The fingers of her other hand trembled slightly under his. 

"I haven't been on a date in--" She leaned back against his arm, then scrunched up one side of her face as she thought. "Well, a very long while. Sounds wonderful. When?" 

"I suppose tonight would be too soon?" he asked, hoping against hope.

She cocked her head as she thought for a second that was way too long in his estimation. 

"No, tonight would be good," she said, smiling. She eased her hand out of his, but she left his arm in place around her waist as she moved to his side. "So what shall we do?"

He took but a moment to think, so she couldn't change her mind. "Suppose we start with dinner and see where it leads."

Turning toward him, she lifted one eyebrow and smiled. "Dinner is good," she said. 

"How about I pick you up ... say around seven?"

Leyza nodded. "Seven it is."

She looped her arm around his waist, then she began strolling back toward the house. "Can you stay for a cup of tea?" 

Though the offer was tempting, he shook his head. "I can't - I've got some errands to run."

"Later then," she said.

"Yes," he answered, then he took her hand and kissed it. "Later."


	12. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 12

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 12

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Leyza pushed the front door shut, then she watched Duncan through the glass pane as he walked away with jaunty stride. His shoulders were squared, his head held high and his long coat swirled in his wake. He seemed to possess a much lighter spirit than he had a few weeks ago - and of that she was glad.

A tiny phantom of guilt nibbled at the edges of her conscience, though, when she remembered that she'd lied to him. Lied when she told him she'd forgotten about meeting him the night of the fire. Fire or no fire, Duncan MacLeod was not a man she could easily forget. In fact, he hadn't been far from her thoughts for the entire three days she'd been gone. 

From the first moment she'd seen him on the Pont St. Louis, he'd captured her imagination. After a few minutes of conversation, he'd left a deeply etched imprint on her soul and captured her heart as well. How could she not have thought about him?

His beguiling smile could tease, promise passion or offer comfort. His deep voice caressed her ears with rich resonant tones that sent tingling spirals of need coiling around every nerve ending until she fairly hummed with it. His expressive brown eyes could melt her with a single sultry look, and his luscious mouth simply begged to be kissed.

Beyond his countless physical charms, Duncan MacLeod was a paradox, a conundrum, a chambered nautilus of a man she could know forever, yet never know at all. 

He held a fierce pride high and with both hands like a standard bearer, and yet he was quietly humble. He was a man of strength, but beneath the strength coursed a molten core of vulnerability. He was a man who contained a storm of emotional pain, yet it raged under a deep sea of serenity. And he was a man she wanted to explore further, a man she wanted to hold and comfort, a man she could love.

Leyza smiled as Duncan paused at the gate to waggle his fingers in a wave. She waved back, but he'd already rounded the corner of the wall. With her hand pressed against the glass, she stood there until the sensation of him faded, then she turned away.

"So that's the reason you've been disappearing for hours every night," the young Asian woman said with an impish smile that implied she knew the whole story.

For a moment, Leyza regarded the young woman she'd rescued from the horror that was Da Nang in the spring of 1975, then she smiled back. "That, my dear, Francine, is none of your business."

Francine responded with a broader smile, then she looped her arm around Leyza's waist. "He's quite a hunk," she said. "I'm impressed ... so is he like you and May-Ling?"

With a gentle tug, Leyza freed her arm. "You know better than to ask that question."

Francine pushed her lower lip out in a pout as she sighed. "Yeah, but it's no fun knowing about Immortals if you won't tell me who they are."

"Unless I think they might be a threat, you don't need to know who they are," Leyza said. "And it's--"

"I know," Francine interrupted with a smile. "None of my business. But you have no idea how totally awesome it was to watch May-Ling come back to life after she shielded us from that bomb blast. I may have been only three, but it's an image that will stay with me even if I live to be a hundred." Francine narrowed her eyes as she stared at Leyza. "Or if I live to be four hundred or five hundred ... or a thousand."

"Oh Francie," Leyza said with a sigh as she reached out to tuck a strand of dark silken hair behind her ward's ear. "We've been through this before. You're not Immortal. I'm sorry."

"C'est la vie," Francine said with a shrug. "You can't blame a girl for hoping. I'll be in the library - I have tests to grade. But please feel free to interrupt if you care to share any tidbits about the intriguing Mr. MacLeod." She added a wink to a wicked smile, then she whirled in a perfect pirouette before she sauntered off toward the back of the house. 

Francine didn't know that her innocent dance step triggered a twinge of painful memories for Leyza. Memories of another young woman - one who could dance like a fairy queen - one who _had_ been Immortal. Francine didn't know about Solange, because Leyza had never told her - couldn't bring herself to tell this young woman about the other young woman she'd thought of as her only child. 

Though she'd raised Francine since the girl was three, she'd done it from a distance. She'd given her all the material things a child could ever want - the best nannies, the best toys, the best schools - but she couldn't given her a mother's unconditional love. 

* * * * * _Not again,_ Leyza thought as the little girl looked up at her with a wide-eyed intelligent stare. _I can't go through this heartache again._

But it was already too late. When the child smiled, then slipped a tiny hand into Leyza's, she also slipped beneath Leyza's carefully erected defenses.

Chattering away in a garbled mix of French and Vietnamese, the tot towed her over to a battered army cot. Though Leyza couldn't understand more than a word or two, it didn't take a linguistics expert to figure out that the child wanted to show off her most precious, and most likely sole possession - a grimy baby doll with one eye missing, no clothes and hardly any hair.

Leyza drew a deep breath. Knowing it was a mistake to let her heart catch the little girl's infectious spirit, she still crouched down to the child's level so she could examine the doll.

"A couple of the soldiers brought her in last week. They brought her the doll yesterday."

Leyza glanced over her shoulder at the sound of a very familiar voice.

"We don't know her real name, but she answers to Francine," May-Ling said, with a grin. "So it must be something close to that."

Dressed in rumpled camouflage pants and a stained black tank top, she lounged against the door frame of the partly bombed-out building her group was using as a gathering point for the children of Operation Babylift. When Leyza returned her grin, May-Ling ambled across the room, then crouched down beside her.

Leyza let the warm rush of friendship flow over her, then she laughed. "I don't know how I let you talk me into this," she said, turning her attention back to the child. 

May-Ling smiled as she ran her hand over the child's dark matted hair. "I can be very persuasive," she said. 

"Tell me something, I don't know," Leyza said, then she stood.

May-Ling stood with her and as the two women embraced, Leyza wished for a moment - a very brief moment - that they could be normal friends. Mortal friends who'd met at work, or at a PTA meeting, or because they were next door neighbors. But then she remembered that kind of friendship wouldn't have lasted nearly 700 years, and she wouldn't trade one moment of it for all the normalcy in the world.

"I almost died three times just getting here," Leyza whispered. "This is insane!"

"But you didn't die," May-Ling said with a smile. "And we need help getting the orphans out of here and into the hands of the adoptive parents we have waiting for them in other countries ... besides you owe me after Singapore." 

"Now don't start that up again - it was nearly 20 years ago," Leyza said, laughing softly as she sat down next to Francine on the sagging cot - one of about 30 in the room.

"I spent two weeks in that miserable, rat infested jail," May-Ling said with a grimace, but a sliver of humor slipped into her voice as she slipped her arms around two raggedy tots who had rushed to her side. "And they confiscated my plane."

Leyza fought with her emotions as Francine curled up next to her, then used her lap for a pillow while sucking contentedly on a dirty thumb. She made one brief attempt at removing the girl's thumb from her mouth, but quickly gave it up as a hopeless cause.

_You can't afford another Solange,_ she thought as she glanced up to catch May-Ling watching her with gleam in her eyes and a sagacious smile that barely curved the edges of her mouth. 

That keen look made Leyza feel like the test subject in a behavioral experiment, but then she frequently felt that way with May-Ling. It was her old friend's nature to observe and analyze everything around her. May-Ling couldn't stop following the path to wisdom anymore than a plant could stop turning to the sun.

"I've told you a thousand times - I didn't know Jon's friends were smugglers and grave robbers," Leyza said with a smile and a faint sigh. Their adventure in Singapore had become a routine discussion with them whenever they hadn't seen each other in awhile. It served as a focal point, and put them on the same page again. "And I got you out of that jail, didn't I?"

May-Ling smiled as she shrugged. "Took you long enough .... and I never got my plane back."

Leyza laughed. "It was an old plane."

May-Ling's smile slipped into a wicked grin. "Sometimes old is best." The smile faded, then caring concern filled her dark eyes. "How have you been?"

Leyza shrugged. "I've been better."

"Solange, again?"

Leyza nodded. "She came to see me last week."

"Came after your head, you mean," May-Ling corrected. She separated herself from the skirt of children that had formed around her, then held out her hand.

"Come, I'll make some tea ... we'll talk."

Leyza wadded up the thin blanket that barely covered the cot, then she tucked it under Francine's head. Shifting the sleeping child gently, she stood, then took May-Ling's hand. "There's nothing to talk about."

May-Ling linked their arms, then guided Leyza across the room. "Then we'll talk about something else ... but it's not your fault - you should know that by now."

"I keep trying to convince myself of that," Leyza said with a sigh as she glanced back over her shoulder at Francine. "But I can't help thinking maybe if I'd done something differently, she wouldn't have ended up so bitter.

" 

"You did all you could," May-Ling insisted. "You took her in, you loved her like your own flesh and blood ... and you helped make her one of the greatest ballerinas of her time."

Leyza shook her head. "I can't take credit for that ... she made herself a star. But I knew she was going to be one of us - I shouldn't have let Jules Perrot see her dance. I shouldn't have encouraged her ... but she was so very talented, I couldn't resist."

May-Ling had led her to another room that barely had space for an old grey metal desk, two straight back grey chairs and another cot. The only window had a broken pane that had been patched with a piece of cardboard. She released Leyza's arm, then crossed the room to a scarred wooden table covered with tins of food, and cooking utensils. Her small graceful hands fluttered over a chipped clay pot and a battered tin dappled with rust spots as she prepared the tea on a sterno stove. 

"Hindsight," she said, pouring the brew into thick white mugs, "Is a sharp sword. A wise person handles it with care."

Taking the mug May-Ling held out to her, Leyza smiled. "Are you questioning my judgment, old friend?"

"I'm merely suggesting that you question it yourself," May-Ling answered, then she tapped her cup against Leyza's in a brief salute. She smiled, took a sip of her tea, then crossed the room to sit in the chair behind the desk. "You said she came to see you ... what did she want?"

Leyza's humorless laugh ended in a brief snort as she took the chair on the opposite side of the desk. "She went to see George Balanchine."

"To dance for him?" May-Ling asked. Her dark eyes widened with undisguised astonishment.

"Yes, she'd concocted some story about defecting from Russia. She told him she'd danced with the Kirov."

May-Ling's eyes grew wider still. "And she expected him to believe her?"

Leyza glanced down at the cup in her hand. She gazed into the dark steaming tea as though it held the answers. "I guess," she said with a shrug. 

"She was very upset that he didn't rush to put her in his next ballet. She never even got past his assistant. I don't know what made her think she could pull it off ... she knows everyone, who's anyone in the dance world, knows everyone else."

"She's a fool," May-Ling said, shaking her head in disgust. 

Leyza shrugged. "She's obsessed. From the first moment she stepped onto the stage at the Paris Opera House, she was hooked, and dancing was the drug. She has this twisted notion that somehow I took dancing away from her. She doesn't want to understand, that because she's Immortal, she can no longer be the prima ballerina, she was."

"Does she think you made her Immortal? Does she think you arranged for Carlo Donatelli to end her life and her career by plunging a knife her chest?"

"She's so bitter and delusional, I don't know what she thinks anymore." Leyza set the cup on the desk, then she stood. She dragged her hand through her hair as she paced. 

"She came to me before she left for New York, and we had a big argument when I told her that her story wouldn't fly. I asked her if she planned to tell George Balanchine that she had studied with Jules Perrot and Marius Petipa, or if she would tell him she danced in the premier performance of Giselle ... she didn't think it was funny."

May-Ling laughed. "I'm not surprised. She never did have a sense of humor."

Leyza shrugged, then she dropped down into the chair. "Not where dancing is concerned anyway. And she doesn't want to understand that no major dance company is going to hire an unknown dancer who's 28 years old. Faking dance credentials is not like forging a fake college degree ... it's a small community and people talk to each other. But she won't give up trying."

"Perhaps you are the one who should give up trying," May-Ling said, quietly. "Count it as a bad experience and forget her."

Standing again, Leyza considered May-Ling's advice. It made perfect sense from a logical point of view, but it didn't take into account the emotional entanglements. For better or for worse, Leyza thought of herself as Solange's mother. She slid onto the corner of May-Ling's desk, then picked up her tea cup. She swallowed the mouthful of tepid tea that remained, then she smiled at her old friend.

"You're absolutely right ... but I can't get myself to do that," she said with a sigh. "Perhaps that's why we can't have children of our own ... it gets way too complicated."

May-Ling nodded, but then a scuffing sound from the doorway caught the attention of both women. Clutching her doll under her arm, Francine toddled into the room. She stood before Leyza, then lifted her arms in a irresistible bid to be held. 

Leyza drew a deep breath to break the ropes she felt being looped around her heart, then she bent to pick the child up. She settled Francine on her lap, then glanced at May-Ling.

Her old friend didn't say a word. She didn't have to - her shrewd expression said it all.

"Not this time," Leyza said, making a promise to herself as well as assuring May-Ling that she knew exactly what could happen. "I've learned my lesson. If she wants a friend, she gets a friend ... if she want's a mother, she'll have to look elsewhere."


	13. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 13

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 13

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Leyza was never sure why, but Francine willingly accepted whatever she was given. She never asked for more, never seemed to expect more. And for that Leyza was extremely grateful.

Now that she was older - nearly the same age as Leyza had been since her first death - they had become close friends. They did all the things good friends did. Like the housemates they were, they went shopping together, then had lunch in a favorite bistro. They strolled through museums on rainy Sunday afternoons and passed handfuls of tissues while watching sad romantic films in darkened movie theaters, but today was the first time Francine had the opportunity to help Leyza prepare for a date. And she was taking to the task with great gusto.

"You can't wear yellow," she said crinkling her nose. "Your skin tones are all wrong for it."

"But I love this blouse," Leyza insisted, holding the gold silk blouse before her as she studied her reflection in the antique cheval mirror.

Francine rubbed her chin and scrunched up one side of her face as she concentrated. "That whole look is all wrong," she said waving her hand to indicate the soft black trousers Leyza wore - and the blouse she'd already rejected as unsuitable. "You look like you're going to a business meeting. You should wear a dress, something short and sexy."

She turned to dig through the mound of clothes they'd already piled on Leyza's ornate brass bed. "Like this," she said, holding up a short slip dress, made of a soft navy blue crepe printed with bright pink flowers.

Leyza laughed. "That's a summer dress - I'll freeze to death."

"No big deal for you," Francine teased. She let the dress sway from its hanger as she sashayed closer. "Besides, I'm sure Duncan wouldn't mind keeping you warm."

"Freezing is a very unpleasant way to die," Leyza said, as she snatched the dress from Francine. Despite her reservations, she held it in front of her to consider it. "And what Duncan wouldn't mind doing is none of your business."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're no fun at all?" Francine asked with a wicked grin.

Leyza hung the dress on the post of the mirror, then let the pants drop to the floor. "Yes, you," she said, pulling the dress over her head, as she stepped out of the pants. "All the time."

She moved out of the way while Francine picked up the discarded pants, then she narrowed her eyes as she checked her reflection in the mirror. The navy blue had a green, rather than a purple cast so it accented the color of her eyes, and the printed fabric kept the dress casual rather than fancy. 

Since Duncan hadn't mentioned where they were going to eat, and she had been too surprised by his invitation to ask, she needed to wear something that would work most anywhere. Unless he planned to take her to the local McDonald's - an event she consider quite unlikely - this dress would be appropriate. 

Besides, the scoop neck that showed just a hint of cleavage was low enough to be intriguing, but high enough to avoid a blatant suggestion of sexuality. 

"I hate you," Francine said, as she moved behind Leyza. "If I had great legs like you do, I'd never wear pants."

"You _have_ great legs, dear," Leyza said with a smile. "And I have knobby knees. Maybe I shouldn't wear this dress."

"Your knees are fine," Francine insisted. "And if I was as tall as you maybe my legs would be as long as yours - then they would be great." She slipped her fingers into Leyza's braid, then began untangling the strands. "The dress looks fantastic, and so will you if you let me do your hair."

By the time Francine had finished, Leyza had to admit she was right. "Not bad," she said, checking her appearance one more time in the living room pier glass. "If you ever decide you're bored with anthropology, you can always do make overs."

"I'll keep that in mind," Francine said, laughing, then she handed Leyza a glass of sherry.

As she took the glass, Leyza glanced down at her hand and took note of the faint tremor. "I haven't done this dating thing in so long, the butterflies in my stomach are the size of condors."

Francine perched on the arm of the sofa and tipped her head. She wore a speculative expression. "Why haven't you?" she asked.

"Why haven't I what?" Leyza asked, stalling for time to consider the question.

"Gotten involved with more men," Francine answered. "In the 25 years I've known you, there have been ... what 3 maybe 4? And hardly any were what I would call serious relationships."

Leyza turned to check her appearance one more time as she thought about how few men had really interested her over the last century, and she realized that most of them lost out when compared to PJ Berard. All of them that is until she saw Duncan MacLeod standing on a Paris bridge in the middle of the night. 

_PJ, you've met your match,_ she thought, then lifted her glass in a toast to his memory. She wondered if he was watching her ... and if he approved. For some odd reason, she thought he just might. She turned to answer Francine's question, but the chime of the doorbell stopped her.

"I'll get it," Francine said, popping up from the sofa arm. "I want another look at this guy."

"No, I'll get it," Leyza said, laughing. "But you could get my coat."

Francine strode off muttering under her breath, while Leyza went to answer the door. It took a moment or two for her to realize that she had not felt the flutter of an Immortal presence, but that didn't matter because the man standing on her porch was quite obviously not Duncan MacLeod.


	14. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 14

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 14

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

He was a tiny little man, who stood about a foot shorter than she did, with grey hair, a thin grey mustache and lively blue eyes. Though he clearly wasn't Immortal and appeared harmless enough, Leyza opened the door cautiously.

As he tugged off his brown tweed cap, he smiled. His blue eyes sparkled with a natural joy, and his mustache twitched, giving him a comic air. "Are you Mademoiselle Berard?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, smiling as she looked down at him. 

"I am Jacques Duval," he said, holding out a single, long-stemmed, pink rose. "Monsieur MacLeod asked me to pick you up in my cab. He said to tell you that he's been unavoidably detained, and that he sends his apologies."

Leyza couldn't resist lifting the fragrant flower to her nose. She inhaled its sweet scent as she tried to still the sudden jump in her heartbeat. The words, _unavoidably detained_ tended to take on an ominous significance when you were Immortal. 

"Thank you," she said, when she could manage to smile again. "I'll just get my coat."

Once more, Francine was standing right behind her. Frowning, she leaned over to peer around, Leyza. "That's not Duncan," she whispered.

"Your powers of observation are astounding," Leyza said, laughing as she took her coat - and her sword from Francine. 

"But--" Francine started. Leyza shut down her protest with a toss of her head.

"Don't worry about me ... and don't wait up," she said, then seeing the concern that filled the young woman's eyes, she kissed her on the forehead. "I'll be fine."

She knew that Francine would indeed worry until she returned home, but it couldn't be helped, for she had no intentions of staying home. She just hoped her ward wouldn't lose too much sleep over it, and she hoped that Duncan had been detained by some ordinary problem like a flat tire.

* * * * * 

As Jacques Duval guided his cab through the streets of Paris, Leyza stared out the window and pondered the possibilities. What could have kept Duncan from coming himself? And why hadn't he just called? No sense fretting about the unknown, she cautioned herself, but still she couldn't dismiss her concerns.

When Jacques turned his cab onto the Quai de la Tournelle, those concerns shifted into a new compartment. She'd been so focused on Duncan's whereabouts, she hadn't given much thought to the fact that she'd foolishly placed herself in the care of a perfect stranger. Where _was_ he taking her? She was about to ask him when he stopped beside the long dark shape of a barge anchored at the quay.

"Here we are," he said, turning to her with a smile, then he climbed out of the cab and opened the back door.

Leyza frowned as she considered the barge. It seemed well-kept, and soft light shimmered through the bare windows of the central cabin, but no one moved on deck. And no Immortal presence tickled her senses ... not yet anyway. 

"Just where exactly is _here_?" she asked.

Jacques looked puzzled for a moment. "Why the Quai de la Tournelle, of course," he answered. When Leyza continued to look at him with a questioning frown, he added, "Monsieur MacLeod lives there ... on the barge. But I thought you knew." 

Leyza laughed. "No, actually I didn't ... he never mentioned it." 

Mulling over the vast number of things she didn't know about Duncan MacLeod, she stepped out of the cab, then reached for the small purse that swung from her shoulder on a long skinny strap. 

"No, no, Mademoiselle," Jacques protested with a wave of his hand. "Monsieur MacLeod has taken care of everything. Please ... enjoy your dinner." With that the cab driver climbed back into his car, then drove off leaving her alone on the quay.

_What is Duncan up to,_ she wondered, as she set her foot on the gangway. But she didn't have time to ponder it further because she was suddenly surrounded by a strong Immortal signal, then Duncan appeared at the far side of the barge. 

Wearing soft black trousers and a white silk shirt that appeared to glow with ethereal light against the darkness, he strode across to meet her. An unexpected flutter of unease shook her confidence, and for a very brief moment Leyza wished they had left things as they were when they were meeting on the bridge. Romance and the possibility of physical intimacy could add complications to their relationship that she wasn't sure she wanted to face right now.

"Welcome to Chez MacLeod," he said with a smile, then he motioned her on board with a sweeping bow and a very credible maitre d' imitation.

As Duncan watched Leyza walk up the gangway toward him - watched the breeze tease gossamer wisps from her upswept hair - watched her lips curve into a smile of amusement - 400 years of experience deserted him. 

Suddenly, he was a fourteen year old boy again watching Debra Campbell stroll across the green in Glenfinnan. Wiping the moisture from his palms on the side of his trousers, he took a deep breath, then held his hand out to help her over the gunwale.

"Well, thanks ... I think," Leyza said, laughing. "What's this all about? When I found Jacques at my door instead of you, I was worried that you'd met some headhunter or an old enemy with a grudge."

Taking her arm, he took control of his emotions at the same time. "Sorry about that," he said. "I thought I'd make dinner tonight. I enjoy cooking, and I haven't been doing much of it lately."

He stopped, then regarded her with a mischievous grin. "And what did you think _I_ was doing for the three days _you_ vanished without a word?"

"Ouch," she said, tipping her chin to her chest. "I guess, I had that coming." 

Leyza looked up again, then allowed her gaze to meet his. The genuine concern vying with the spark of amusement in Duncan's eyes touched her deeply, and she wished she could take back any distress she'd caused him. "I'm sorry, too," she said, stroking his cheek. "I never thought you'd worry about me."

"Well, I did," he said, touching his forehead to hers, then he turned, settled her hand on his arm and guided her down the companionway.

"I didn't picture you living on a barge," Leyza said as he ushered her through the door, then down a short flight of steps.

"Something wrong with living on a barge?"

"Not at all," she answered, with a laugh. "Actually, I think it's a grand idea ... right next door to my friend the river ... I don't know why I never thought of it myself."

Duncan moved behind her, then placed his hands on her shoulders. "Here," he said, his mouth close to her ear. "Let me take your coat."

She let him slide the coat off her shoulders. "I think I'm a little over dressed," she said, with a nervous twitter. 

"Nonsense," he replied. Surrendering to an irresistible impulse, he pressed his lips to her bare shoulder. "You look wonderful." As he tucked another tender kiss just below her ear, he nearly lost himself in the heady scent she wore. "And you smell wonderful too," he added in a hoarse whisper. 

With great reluctance, he draped her coat over his arm, then forced himself to turn away before he suggested that they forget about dinner. "What's that perfume you're wearing?" he asked as he hung up her coat.

Leyza took a few steps into the room. "Givenchy," she called over her shoulder. "L'Interdit - it's my favorite." 

He loped down the stairs, then moved behind a bar built into the corner. "It's very nice," he said, with a smile. He plucked a cool green bottle out of a bucket of ice, then held a corkscrew over it. "Would you like some wine?"

"Yes, I would, thanks," she replied, stepping up to join him at the bar. 

As Leyza reached out to take the glass of white wine Duncan handed her, their fingers touched - just a brief brush of warm skin against warm skin, but the contact flared like the strike of a match.

Her hand trembled, and the wine sloshed around in the glass. A single drop made it over the rim and slithered down the outside. She caught it on her finger, then slipped the finger into her mouth.

That simple innocent gesture triggered a not so innocent reaction in Duncan. He forced himself to ignore the tingling rush of desire and focused on his own glass while he filled it with pale gold wine. But the teenage boy he'd become when Leyza first arrived couldn't resist the opportunity to tease. "Nervous," he asked with a playful grin as he found the composure to look at her again.

Leyza didn't meet his gaze as she shrugged. "A little," she said, muffling a soft laugh with the back of her hand. "I haven't done this in awhile ... I guess I'm out of practice."

Leaning against the wall behind the bar, Duncan buried one restless hand in his pocket, then he gripped the glass with the other one. "Don't worry," he said, watching an attractive flush stain her cheeks. "I won't bite." That comment wasn't likely to put either of them at ease, but he couldn't resist.

Leyza lifted her head slowly, then she raised one eyebrow and ran her tongue across her upper lip. "Pity," she said in a steady, yet sultry voice, then she turned away before he could comment. If Duncan wanted to tease, she could play that game as well as he could. Her flirting skills might be a little rusty, from disuse, but she had centuries of practice to fall back on.

As she took a deep breath and a large gulp of wine, Leyza glanced around the room. She needed to look at anything right now ... anything but Duncan MacLeod. She had to regain some of her poise before she could even think about looking at him again. At the moment, looking at his home was far safer.

The living area of his barge was a nice open space on two levels, and though the flickering light of nearly two dozen candles bathed it with a romantic glow, it was as bare as a monk's cell. Except for the bar, a fireplace, a low table surrounded by cushions, a few trunks, a bookshelf, a platform bed, and an exquisite mandala, there wasn't much else to speak of. 

"Interesting place you have here," she said using her elbows for props as she leaned back against the bar. "But I see you take the minimalist approach to decorating quite seriously." Feeling her confidence return, she turned her head to grin at him.

He responded with a weak smile, but then he quickly ducked his head and began to fuss with something below the level of the bar. "I got a little carried away with my spring cleaning," he mumbled.

She turned completely around to study him better - to analyze the sudden feeling that she'd made him uncomfortable about something - but she was too late. He already had his back to her.

"He cooks, he cleans," she said in a teasing tone. "You're a man of amazing talents, Duncan MacLeod."

"That's me," he said with an impish grin when he spun back to face her again.

In his hand, Duncan held a plate covered with stuffed portabello mushroom caps which he'd cut into wedges. He picked one up between his thumb and his forefinger, then held it out to her. 

Leyza lifted one eyebrow at the casual breach of etiquette, but she couldn't resist his roguish smile. Resting her forearms on the bar, she leaned forward to let him put the mushroom wedge in her mouth, then she captured his fingers between her lips for a flicker of a second. 

Their eyes met and held as he withdrew his hand. In an intimate gesture that sent incendiary pulses racing through her body, Duncan licked the mushroom juice and the moisture of her mouth from his fingertips.

The sensual diversion was all over in less than a minute, but it left Leyza breathless as she watched him slide the plate onto the bar. He kept his head lowered, so she couldn't see his eyes, couldn't tell if it had affected him the way it had affected her. She waited a few seconds for him to look at her again, but he seemed preoccupied with his dinner preparations.

With a small sigh Leyza helped herself to another slice of mushroom, then she strolled across the room to examine the mandala that had drawn her attention earlier.

"This mandala is just magnificent," she said. "Did you get it in Tibet?"

"Malaysia," he answered. "I ... ah, spent some time there recently."

"I've been to Kuala Lumpur," she said. "But it was a long time ago. As I recall, it was a very interesting city."

Bringing Leyza to the barge had been a mistake, Duncan thought as he broke off pieces of romaine for the Caesar salad. There were too many shadows, too many ghosts, too many things for her to question. With his heart pounding in his chest, he couldn't think fast enough to divert this treacherous conversation.

"I spent most of my time in a monastery in the hills," he said, blurting out the truth in a rush. "I ... didn't get to see much of the city."

"Ah, Holy Ground," Leyza said, laughing softly. She narrowed her eyes and studied the top of Duncan's head as she strolled back to the bar side of the room. _He's run to ground on me again,_ she thought, wondering what it was that troubled him so.

She set her wine glass down, then considered the plate of mushrooms for a moment before deciding against eating another. "I've done more than one tour of that duty. One time I spent nearly 6 months in a convent - and that's about as long as I can live the contemplative life ... sometimes too much time to think about a situation hurts rather than helps."

Duncan lifted his head, then took a sip of wine. His soft brown eyes darkened to deep sable pools as he watched her for a moment, then he lifted one shoulder in a lackadaisical shrug. 

"Sometimes," he said, rounding the bar, then he crossed the room to set the salad bowl on the table. 

Leyza reconsidered the plate of mushrooms. She selected a piece, then nibbled one end. When Duncan returned to her side, she offered the rest to him. "My life has been too close to a nun's lately ... way too close," she said, with her most beguiling smile.

Duncan's eyes twinkled with a responsive light as he opened his mouth to take her offering, then echoing her action, he closed his lips on her fingers. He teased the tips of them with his tongue, and the warm wet texture of it nearly melted what little control Leyza had left. She leaned in to kiss him, but he moved away before their lips met.

"Dinner's almost ready," he said, breaking the spell, then he returned to the far side of the bar. It stood like a solid safety barrier between them.

With trembling hands, Duncan spilled strands of angel hair pasta onto two plates, then he spooned bright-colored vegetables and a light sauce over the top.

Leyza was intelligent, beautiful and provocative. He wanted her - wanted her now, lying beneath him naked and breathless with passion. It was quite clear that she shared his desires, but making love to her could break down those glass walls that surrounded him - glass walls he still needed for some nettling reason he couldn't pin down. Though the wounds to his spirit had begun to heal, they were still too raw to bear close examination - and he had no doubt she would examine them if he gave her the slightest opportunity.

"I hope you like pasta primavera ... I haven't been eating much meat lately," he said, letting another admission slip out. _Shut up, MacLeod,_ he scolded himself. _Let her do all the talking._

"I love pasta," Leyza said, crossing the room to the bookshelf that also held part of his large collection of CD's. "The music's stopped ... do you mind if I pick something out?"

"Be my guest," he answered, then he popped a bit of broccoli into his mouth, hoping food might prevent him from revealing any more troublesome information. At least the conversation had drifted onto a safer topic. He could handle a discussion of musical tastes.

The first stacker Leyza checked through held nothing but opera. _Well, that's one thing we _don't _have in common,_ she thought with a grin. She hated opera. Setting aside a few interesting selections for later, she chose a disk of Chopin preludes, then slid it into the CD player.

"Dinner is served, Madame," Duncan said from behind her.


	15. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 15

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 15

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

She turned to find him standing near the table with a plate in each hand. He was grinning like a child with a new toy to show off - but as she moved closer, the grin faded and he swept her with a worried glance.

"I'm sorry," he said, bending to set the plates on the low table. "I guess, I didn't plan this very well."

He skittered from side to side like a squirrel caught in the middle of the street as he clearly tried to come up with a solution for a problem Leyza didn't yet see.

"I've ... ah, got a folding table and some chairs," he said, raking his fingers through his hair. The nervous gesture left it in a tousled state with a few dark curls dangling over his forehead, and Leyza found the result quite charming.

"They're up in the wheelhouse," he continued, then he started to walk away. "I'll go get them and--"

"I've spent quite a lot of time in the Orient, Duncan," she said, grasping his arm to keep him in place. "I have no problem with sitting on the floor, but you'll have to promise not to look while I sit in this dress. I have the distinct feeling, I will look about as graceful as a dodo bird coming in for a landing."

"Dodos birds didn't fly," he said laughing, then held his hand over his eyes. 

"Exactly," Leyza said, as she toed off her high-heeled pumps.

Duncan slid his hand down his face, then peered at her through his fingers. "Are you sure ... because I can still get the--"

"It's all right," she said, then she motioned for him to cover his eyes, before she dropped down to the cushion on the floor. "Okay, you can look, now."

The impish grin had returned to curve the corners of his mouth, and so had the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "You do that quite well," he said. "Not at all like a dodo bird."

"You peeked."

He ducked his head and chuckled softly. "A little."

Leyza regarded him with a raised eyebrow. "Obviously, you can't be trusted."

"Never said I could," he replied with a slightly wicked grin, then moving with more grace than she thought humanly possible, he sank down to the cushion on the opposite side of the table.

He cocked his head in a questioning gesture as he held the wine bottle out to her. She nodded, then as he filled her glass, she studied his hands. 

They were magnificent hands - hands Michelangelo might have sculpted. She imagined his strong fingers stroking her body in the heat of passion. Imagined what luscious sensations they could elicit with a tender touch in just the right places. And she had no doubt that he would know _all_ the right places. 

Ducking her head to hide the flush that spread over her cheeks, she forced the images to the back of her mind and shifted her position on the cushion to quell the tremors ripping through her body. While she fought for control, she sipped her wine and savored the crisp, yet fruity taste of the excellent Chardonnay.

"So who goes first - you or me?" she asked when she thought she could keep her voice steady.

Duncan blinked as he looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Pardon?"

"This is our first date - right?"

Hearing the roar of conversational rapids ahead, he nodded slowly and with increasing apprehension.

"Well, we could talk about philosophy, or ancient history, or the state of the human condition like we did when we met on the bridge, but since this is a real date, I think it's customary to trade tidbits of our lives - past and present."

Somewhat relieved, Duncan chuckled softly. "Who made up that rule?"

"Hoyle, of course," Leyza answered, gazing at him over her wine glass. "He made all those rules. Don't tell me you've never read, _Hoyle's Rules of Dating?_"

It seemed the conversation was headed into safe water, but ripples of anxiety still coursed through him as he grinned broadly. "I must have missed that one."

"Well, it could also have been Emily Post or Miss Manners," she said. "I'm not really sure ... so who's going first?"

Now was the time to take control - to anchor the conversation in a safe harbor. He gazed at her for a long moment as he considered his options, then he shifted his focus to the fork in his hand. "I was born in 1592 in the Highlands of Scotland," he said, twirling strands of pasta around the fork. Better to stick with the distant past - it was far less complicated.

"My father was the Chieftain of our clan, and I died the first time in 1622, when a warrior from a neighboring clan ran me through with a sword," he looked up at her, then grinned. "Now it's your turn." Perhaps if he could keep her talking about herself, he could avoid getting into trouble.

Picking up her own fork, Leyza laughed. "Well, I guess we _are_ going to talk about ancient history, after all. How extensive is your knowledge of ancient peoples?"

He shrugged, then took a sip of wine to wash down a mouthful of food. "How ancient?"

She cocked her head as she drifted back through time. "Late first century ... circa 76 A.D. - depending on whose calendar you're using."

"Bit before my time," he said with a grin. "But I've read a lot of history, so go on."

"Well, I was born in Dacia, over 1900 years ago," she began. "After the first few centuries, I gave up trying to keep track - especially when they started screwing around with the calendars."

Nodding, Duncan smiled, then he refilled her wine glass.

"Ours was a mountain village near the Oltul River in the heart of the Carpathians - ancient Transylvania," she said in her best Bela Lugosi imitation. "If I close my eyes, I can still see the breathtaking views as if it was yesterday."

She paused to take a forkful of pasta, then she washed it down with more wine. Waving her empty fork, she continued. "Like many of our people, my father was a part time warrior who herded cattle when he wasn't off making war. My mother was a weaver, a potter, a basket-maker - she was always creating something beautiful with her hands.

"When we were just children, I was pledged to marry Tiege, the son of our tribe's Chieftain ... but he and I were lucky - we grew up as friends. Of course, I didn't love him the way I loved PJ, but I loved him just the same and he loved me." She sighed at the wistful memory. 

"He didn't even let his disappointment over my inability to conceive a child through 12 years of marriage sway him from complete devotion."

"Must have been difficult for both of you," Duncan said with a sympathetic smile.

She took a deep breath and a sip of wine, then she shrugged. "Some things weren't meant to be." She grinned at him. "But who knew what _was_ to be?"

As he had hoped, Leyza kept talking. Throughout the course of the meal, she regaled him with amusing anecdotes about her early life and the rich culture of her people.

When Duncan stood to clear their empty plates, she picked up her own, then shifted to her knees. "Relax," he said. "Have some more wine, I'll take care of this." He reached for the plate in her hand, but she pulled it back just out of his reach as she clambered to her feet.

"I want to help," she insisted. "We'll get it done faster."

He made one more attempt to snatch the plate from her hand, but she laughed as she held it just far enough away so he couldn't grab it. 

"You're impossible," he said with an exasperated sigh, giving in before it turned into a game of keep-away. Still her laughter was infectious and he couldn't help laughing with her. 

When he finally shooed her out from behind the bar, she helped herself to another glass of wine, then continued her tale.

"In 106 - with Trajan's legions at our doorstep - King Decebal called all the Chieftains and their families to Sarmisegethusa. He held a huge banquet, and ordered everyone to drink poison rather than let the Romans take us prisoners.

"Tiege's father decided to disobey the king. He said if he was going to give up his life, he intended to take as many Romans with him as he could. He persuaded Tiege, my parents and me to go along with his plan. He was a great bear of a man like Phillippe Vachon, and he could be quite convincing when he put his mind to it." At that last comment, she grinned.

"We pretended to drink the poison, then we met the Romans at the gates of the city. Of course we were all slaughtered, but we took a fair number Romans with us - as Tiege's father had hoped. Of course, to my great surprise, and the great dismay of the soldier who chose to strip this particular corpse of her jewelry - I didn't stay dead."

"That must have been quite a shock," Duncan said, laughing as he stowed away the last of the dishes.

"As long as I live, I will never forget the look on his face - it was priceless. He couldn't run away fast enough ... but a few minutes later, he came back with his centurion - who thought he was bonkers, by the way," she said, moving with a restless energy as she paced in front of the bar. 

"While I was still trying to figure out how come I was alive, while everyone else was dead, they took me prisoner. But I was lucky. The centurion - Aeneas was his name - was a gentle and kind man, who had become quite disgusted with the senseless slaughter and destruction." 

Leyza took a long deep breath and a sip of wine. Even after more than 19 centuries, she could still recall the stench of the burning city, still hear the cries of the women and children, still see the broken and bleeding bodies of her friends and family.

Duncan came out from behind the bar to stand beside her. As he brushed a recalcitrant spiral of hair back from her face with a gentle stroke of his fingers, he gazed at her with caring concern shining in his eyes. "War always comes down to senseless slaughter and destruction," he said softly.

"Yes, it does," she answered with a nod. 

She hadn't intended to wander down this painful memory path, but once she started talking about the past, that horrific scene always forced its way to the front of her mind. Turning away, she began walking a circuit of the room to regain her composure.

"After they burned and looted the city," she continued. "Aeneas was recalled to Rome. Though his fellow centurions advised against it, he took me home with him to be a handmaiden for his wife, Serina."

She stopped, then turned to look at Duncan with a lifted eyebrow. "You see, Dacian women had a fierce reputation - there were rumors that we were torturing captured Roman soldiers. A vicious lie, of course," she said, grinning.

"Of course," Duncan said with a smile.

Leyza was tired of standing, but she could see no place to sit except on the cushions by the table - and she wasn't going through that again. Her only other option was to sit on the stairs, or on the waist-high wall formed by the other level. There was the bed, of course, but she wasn't sure if they were quite ready for the implications of that action, so she chose to sit on the wall.

Setting her wine glass on the upper floor, she levered herself up with her hands. She let her legs dangle over the edge, then she crossed her ankles to maintain at least some of her dignity. The slacks, she originally wanted to wear, definitely would have worked better than the dress, but then she smiled as she remembered Duncan's reaction to the dress. It had certainly produced a desirable effect.

"So how did you find out you were Immortal," Duncan asked, as he ambled over to sit beside her.

"I was a slow-learner," she said, turning to grin at him. "It took me three years."

"Me too," he said with a soft chuckle, then he grew serious. "My father thought I was some kind of demon or evil spirit, and he banished me. I wandered around Scotland trying to figure it all out, then I met Connor MacLeod, my first teacher."

"Mine was Vespera, the wife of a Roman general," Leyza said.

"I met her in the marketplace near the Forum. Serina wanted me to make her a new tunic, so she took me with her when she went shopping for the material. When I felt Vespera's presence, I thought I'd become ill - so did Serina. She found me a quiet place to sit down, then she went to a nearby well to get some water. She wasn't gone two minutes when Vespera came at me with her sword drawn. I thought she was crazy."

Duncan chuckled softly, but the sound echoed in the nearly empty room and Leyza realized that the music had stopped. She slid off the wall with as much grace as she could muster, then crossed the room to the shelf and the CD player.

"Didn't take her long to figure out that I was clueless," she said, glancing back over her shoulder. "Though Serina and Aeneas treated me well, I was still a slave. I knew had to learn more about being Immortal, but Vespera's husband was being posted to Britain. She helped me slip away, then I lived with them for three years while she taught me."

Leyza picked up the CD's she'd set aside earlier. One was a collection of romantic, but vapid contemporary music that she assumed someone else must have given Duncan because it didn't seem to fit in with the rest of his eclectic collection. She considered the list of songs for a moment, but rejected it because it didn't fit her mood.

"Vespera's husband was killed in a battle with the Saxons," she continued, as she removed a silver iridescent disk - one that _did_ suit her mood - from its case. 

"She had nothing to keep her in Britain, and she hated it there anyway, so when she decided to revisit her homeland - Persia - I went with her. We traveled together for about 5 years, then she fell in love with an Arab trader in Palmyra, and I came back to Europe on my own."

She slid the CD into the player, then waited a moment until the stirring strains of _Begin the Beguine_ filled the room with the romantic sound of Cole Porter's classic. Swaying her hips to the sweeping music, she returned to Duncan's side. "Do you dance?" she asked. 

"I'm a little rusty," he said with a grin, but he slid down from his perch on the wall.

"They say it's like riding a bicycle," she said. Stepping closer to him, she held her arms out.

The candlelight caught a flicker of desire in Duncan's dark eyes as he gazed at her for a moment, then suddenly he grabbed her hand and wrapped his arm around her waist. Before Leyza could take another breath, he whirled her around in a tight circle, then pulled her close to him as he bent her back over his arm.

"They say that about a lot of things," he said in a deep velvety voice that triggered a pulsating itch deep within her.

Her lungs refused to take more than short little gasps of breath, and her heart thumped with an uneven rhythm as she looked up at him, then she smiled - a long slow smile that said she knew he meant a dance of another kind. 

"So they do," she said, when she finally gathered enough breath to exhale.


	16. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 16

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 16

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

He eased her back up again, then spun her out and away from him. As he did, his foot struck the end of the table. "Oops,"he said grinning. "Guess that's got to go."

He held her hand while he nudged the table to the wall with his leg, then he kicked the cushions over to join it. "Instant dance floor," he said waving his hand with a flourish, then he pulled her close again. "Sometimes having no furniture is a definite advantage."

Leyza laughed as she closed her eyes to savor the warm touch of his breath tickling her ear. The moist heat of his hand on her back seeped through the thin fabric of her dress, and the hollow of his throat - mere inches from her mouth - tempted her to kiss it. A swell of intense need filled her until she thought she would burst with wanting him, then he spun her out again and twirled her at the end of his fingers.

In the dead silence between songs, the throbbing of Leyza's heart pounded like a drum beat in her ears. For a flickering moment, she and Duncan stood motionless with just the length of his arm separating them. Neither one moved as they gazed at each other across the narrow space.

Then the plaintive strains of Glenn Miller's _Moonlight Serenade_ spilled into the silence, and Duncan pulled her back into his arms. Simply swaying back and forth he danced her around in a small circle, then he released her hand so he could hold both hands pressed against her back.

Leyza flexed her fingers over his chest until the warmth of his body bled through the soft silk of his shirt, then she linked her hands behind his neck. Moving her fingers in a slow rhythm, she let them play in his silky hair.

Duncan slid his hands to the small of her back, then he pulled her closer, close enough for her to feel the stirring in his groin, close enough for her to know how much he wanted to make love to her.

To hell with the consequences. It didn't matter if she shattered his precious glass walls, or probed wounds that hadn't yet healed. He wanted to taste life again. He wanted to reach out and grab it with both hands. He wanted to tunnel his hands through her hair, to plunder her mouth with his tongue, to bury himself and a year of anguish deep within her welcoming warmth.

Her lips set little flares along his skin as she brushed light kisses on his neck. He dipped his head to take possession of her mouth. Holding her close with one hand, he slid the other up her back. He caressed her nape with his fingers, then he did what he'd been wanting to do all night - he removed the pins from her hair.

"Duncan," she said, breathless as she pulled away. "You're messing my--"

The words caught in her throat as she caught the look of longing in his eyes. Deep shimmering desire made them glow with a dark amber light, that strummed strings of need deep within her. This was it then - the moment they'd been moving toward all night. Their gazes locked as he raked her hair out of its tight twist.

Strands of it tickled her skin as they fell to her shoulders. He brushed it back with his hand as he trailed kisses down her neck, then across her shoulder. One skinny strap slipped off, then the other as the music reached a crescendo.

Another song came on, one with a loud pulsating beat. "We can do without that," he said in a low growl as he danced her over to the shelf.

Still holding her in a strong embrace, he reached over to turn the music off, then he moved his hands to her arms. He skimmed his thumbs over her skin in a light caress and inched the thin straps of her dress further down her arms. They stood breathlessly gazing deep into each other's eyes, then he eased her back against the low wall of the upper level.

For a long moment, he let the visual impact of her lovely face wash over him. He memorized every detail to save, to savor, to lose himself in, then he focused on her mouth. Her full lips were parted in a clear invitation as she looked up at him. He bent his head to taste their raspberry sweetness, to feel their sun-ripened warmth.

She melted against him and leaned in to deepen the kiss, but he wanted to take his time, to cherish every moment. He tightened his grip on her arms to hold her in place while he danced his tongue over her lower lip.

Her breasts brushed against his chest as she breathed a faint giggle into his mouth. "That tickles," she whispered.

He lifted his head, then gazed deep into her eyes. They were luminescent pools of jade, he could easily drown in. "Shall I stop?" he asked.

She smiled as she slid her hands up his arms. "Don't you dare," she answered with another giggle, then with her hands pressing against the back of his neck she urged him closer for another kiss. 

This time she didn't let him tease. She parted her lips and invited him in. And this time he accepted her invitation. This time he kissed her deeply, letting his tongue explore the sensual pleasures of her mouth.

He moved his hands to her waist, holding her close, yet holding her back at the same time. He wanted this moment to last forever, needed this moment to free him from a year of pain. Without giving much thought to the reason, he lifted her up, then set her down on the wall. She moved her legs apart and let him stand between them.

Time stopped for both of them as they feasted on the heat of their desire, as they fed the flames of their hunger.

Already breathless with need, Leyza gasped when Duncan slid his hands up to tease the underside of her breasts. She longed to feel the texture of his palms, gliding over her bare skin. When he caressed the aching flesh with his thumbs, she answered with a moan of pleasure, then she pulled away from the kiss.

"Now, Duncan," she whispered as he trailed kisses down her neck. "Make love to me now."

His lips left a warm, moist, tingling wake as he moved his mouth over the swelling curves just above the neckline of her dress. With both hands, he lifted her breasts closer to his questing mouth, then using his thumbs he eased the fabric down to expose them.

"It's been a long time," he mumbled with his face buried in the warm valley of her flesh. "I have to practice a little first."

Leyza laughed as she leaned back to slip the straps off her arms. When the top of her dress fell in a soft puddle of crepe at her waist, she wove her fingers through the luxuriant thickness of his hair and urged his head lower. 

"It's like riding a bicycle, remember?" she said, then she placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

"What if I fall?" he asked, as he surrounded her swollen nipple with a fringe of delicate kisses that nearly sent her over the edge.

She took a long deep breath, then exhaled on a sigh. "I'll catch you," she answered.

When he flicked his tongue over the nub of her nipple, her senses exploded in a neon rainbow of hot burning need. As it coursed over her in relentless waves, she struggled to breathe. 

Swirling his tongue around the tip of her breast, Duncan suckled her deeply. She leaned back, then wrapped her legs around him to ease the engulfing hunger that raced down their length from her center.

"You're making me crazy," she whimpered.

He lifted his head just enough to look into her eyes. "Tell me what you want," he whispered.

She seized the opportunity to tear at the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. She closed her eyes, then moved her hands over the strong muscular ridges of his chest, and she shivered as the silken texture of his hair tickled her palms. 

"I want you," she said, pushing his shirt down over his shoulders. "I want you inside me, here ... now."

"No," he said, slipping his hands into her hair. The lush strands thrilled him as they slid like melted satin through his fingers. "I'm not ready, yet."

Leyza took hold of his belt buckle, then she opened it with a deft touch. Tucking one hand under the waistband of his trousers, she slid the other over the bulge of his erection.

"I think you're more than ready," she said, her voice low as a cat's purr. 

Duncan chuckled softly as he grasped Leyza's hand before she could pull down his zipper. "I'll decide when I'm ready," he said, still laughing as he pressed a tender kiss on each one of her curled fingers. 

He uncurled her fingers, planted one kiss into her palm, then sowed more kisses up the inside of her arm.

"You know what I really want," she said, with a small sigh while he marched his parade of kisses up the slender column of her neck.

"Tell me," he mumbled, then moved to reclaim the rosy peak of her breast.

He got in one long lick, before she slipped her hands beneath his chin. She lifted his head. "More than anything, I want to give you what _you_ want ... what _you_ need."

For a moment Duncan stared at her while she caressed his jaw with her thumbs. His heart skittered over a beat as he let her words sink into his passion-swamped brain. _What he wanted ... what he needed._ He hadn't considered ... hadn't thought about what he needed for so long. What _did_ he want from her?

Just mulling over the implications sent white hot nettles streaming into his already swollen shaft. He arched one eyebrow as wickedly erotic images filled his thoughts. "My game?" he asked, grinning as he cocked his head.

Leyza nodded, then she let her tongue glide over her upper lip and she moved her hands to his shoulders. "Your game." 

"Okay," he said, letting his grin subside into a lazy smile. "House rules." 

Then before she could say another word, he lifted her effortlessly and carried her up the stairs. 


	17. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 17

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 17

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

He stopped beside the bed, then he set her back on her feet. As she tried to regain her balance, she swayed slightly, and he caught her in his arms. With his hands buried in her hair, he bent to kiss her, gently at first. Then he let the passion build until his heart pounded in his chest, until his breath came in labored gasps, until he thought he'd explode in a crescendo of desire. 

Easing her head back, he framed her face with his hands and feasted on her reaction to the kiss. The pulse in her neck beat against his fingers. Her eyes glistened. Her lips, moist and swollen from his kiss, were parted in a clear bid for more. Her hands trembled as they caressed his chest, and her breasts shifted with a sensuous motion as she fought for each breath.

He brushed her lower lip with his thumbs in a gentle promise to return, then he moved his hands slowly down her neck, and across her shoulders. Taking to time savor the velvet touch of her skin under his palms, he dragged them across her breasts.

Using his thumbs again, he paused to graze her nipples. Leyza gasped at the first touch. Closing her eyes, she arched her back to press her breasts into his hands. Her response nearly shattered what little control he had left. 

He wanted to throw her on the bed, now, to answer a primal and primitive call. He wanted take her unconditionally in a wild tempestuous mating. And yet he had a burning need deep in his soul to make the smoldering passion last as long as he could.

Pressing a tender kiss in the hollow of her neck, he eased his hands down to the hem of her dress. He crushed the soft fabric under his hands and let his fingers brush her thighs as he drew the dress up, then pulled it over her head.

Leyza shivered as the thrill of being nearly naked before him caught her off guard. She returned her hands to his chest as she watched him drop her dress on the floor. She'd abandoned conscious thought the first time he drew his tongue across her nipple. How could she think with wild tremors racing through her body at his every touch? She simply surrendered to the dazzling sensations.

Skimming her hands over the hair that covered his chest, she brought them up to his shoulders. She relished the firm curves of his biceps as she traced them with her fingers, then she lowered her hands to the waistband of his trousers. Once again he stopped her from opening the zipper.

"Not yet," he said, his voice hoarse and deep with hunger.

"But--" she began a protest.

"My rules, remember?" he muttered against her mouth before he kissed her deeply again.

Moving with the swiftness of a jaguar springing to attack, he lifted her again, then set her gently on the bed. He caressed her hair, paused to kiss her mouth, then with tormenting slowness he scattered kisses down her neck and across her breasts. He wanted to taste her, needed to taste her. To fill himself with every inch of her.

She moaned and squirmed beneath him as he took his senses on a journey of exploration. Running his hands over her smooth supple skin, breathing in the scent of her - a heady mix of perfume, lavender soap and musk - savoring the saline taste of her on his tongue, he drowned in a deluge of delight.

Leyza couldn't contain the explosive bursts of pleasure that shook her continuously as he moved down her body. Incandescent showers of need formed an aching vortex in the tender flesh at the juncture of her thighs. If he didn't take her soon, she would go mad with wanting him inside her.

When his quest brought his tongue to her navel, he slid off the end of the bed, then knelt between her legs. Though she had a strong notion of what he was up to, she levered herself up to her elbows to check.

His head was bent over her thigh as he quickly undid the clasp that attached her stockings to the thin black garter belt she'd worn instead of panty hose. 

She took a deep breath and laughed to relieve some of the intense pressure building within her. "I think you've done that before," she said, breathless with anticipation.

He chuckled softly as he lifted his head. "Probably, but it's been so long, I don't remember," he said. 

His hair fell in an enchanting tangle across his forehead. That and his lascivious grin as he eased the silk stockings down her legs, nearly did her in. She dropped back to the bed with a groan, then lifted her hips to let him remove her last bit of clothing - the garter belt and a tiny pair of black lace panties.

He drove her back to the brink again as he skimmed his hands up the insides of her thighs, then followed them with the warm wet pressure of his lips. As his mouth neared the center of her need, she found the strength to say, "Duncan, wait ... don't--"

He lifted his head, and his eyes shimmered with the full radiance of his desire as he looked at her. "Don't?" he whispered, then he cocked his head. "You said this was my game."

Leyza struggled to hold on against the tantalizing stimulation of his thumbs as he caressed the tender inside of her thighs. She'd said that, intending to pleasure him, to fill his every need, his every desire, but this wasn't going according to plan.

"But I wanted to--" she stammered. Her train of thought kept jumping the track. How could she think when his mouth hovered so close to the most sensitive patch of flesh on her body. She couldn't form a cohesive thought, couldn't put together a coherent sentence. "I thought, I would ... I wanted--"

"But this is what I want," he said, then he lowered his head.

As he began to pleasure her with long strokes of his tongue, Leyza lost the tenuous grasp she had on conscious thought. Her body seized control, then quickly surrendered to the exquisite torture of Duncan's mouth as he laved her tender flesh.

She wanted these wild sensations that ripped through her to go on forever, yet she desperately needed the release only one thing could bring her. She needed him inside her, filling her, driving her to the top and over. And she needed him now.

Slipping her fingers into his hair, she tugged gently. "Duncan, please," she moaned. "I can't ... you're making me--"

He lifted his head slightly, stopping the torture, but prolonging the agony. "Just let go," he murmured, as he pressed a kiss into the fine patch of hair that covered her mound.

The glittering passion in her eyes, thrilled him. He fed on the surge of potency that came from knowing he could evoke such a vibrant response from her. He wallowed in the supreme confidence, the ego boosting power of control. He needed to watch her succumb, to feel her surrender, to know he hadn't lost his touch.

He gave Leyza no choice, but to let go. He licked her, stroked her and probed her with his tongue and fingers until she could no longer hold on. Her insides flexed, clenched, then the shuddering release shattered her in a fusillade of tingling tremors.

She sucked in deep breaths and sprawled limp as a rag doll while he continued to nuzzle her tenderly. Just when she thought he would never stop, he lifted his head and gazed at her with a rather smug, pride-filled grin, then he showered her with kisses as he moved up her body.

"You son of bitch," she said, laughing as she wriggled out from under him. 

He chuckled softly, then let her roll him to his back. "What'd I do?"

"You spoiled my plan," she said, pulling down his zipper. This time he didn't stop her. He lifted his hips obligingly as she dragged his trousers and his briefs carefully over his swollen shaft, then down his legs.

He smiled, then raised his head to watch her slip off his shoes. "You had a plan?" he asked with an arched eyebrow and a laugh that sounded more like a giggle.

She dropped the shoes, then tossed his trousers over her shoulder. "A very good plan," she said, then she ran her hands up the insides of his thighs while she crawled up between his legs. "One you spoiled, but I'm going to remedy that right now."

His body twitched in a reflexive spasm when she cupped him gently between her hands.

Falling back, he groaned. "Don't do that unless you mean business," he said, laughing and gasping for breath at the same time.

"I always mean business," she said with a wicked chuckle, then she lowered her head and treated him to a dose of his own medicine.

His senses reeled and a swirling kaleidoscope of pleasure sucked him under its powerful centrifugal force. Suddenly the entire vortex of the universe revolved around his cock and the warm moist burrow of her mouth.

The urge to submit, to surrender to her expert touch vied with the need for control. He wanted to lie back and simply swim in the river of delectable sensations, yet he also wanted, needed to feel her lying beneath him while he conquered her with powerful thrusts. "I think you've done that before," he said in a throaty whisper while the battle inside him raged.

"Probably, but it's been so long, I don't remember," she mumbled, teasing him with his own response to her same comment.

Inexorably, his need to conquer won out. Won out before she could drive him over the edge of his control. He sat up and slipped his hands under her arms, then he tried to pull her up, but she resisted.

"I'm not finished," she said, laughing against him.

"My rules," he insisted, clinging to control with a tenuous grasp. "You promised."

She glanced up at him. "I'm taking it back," she said, then she licked her lips and lowered her head again.

Exerting more pressure, he pulled her back up. "Not fair," he said, "You can't change the rules once the game's begun."

"Watch me," she said laughing as she pulled away.

Teetering on the edge, he reached down, then circled her waist with his hands. She ducked her head and struggled slightly as he dragged her up his body.

Though the flames of her passion had been banked by her first release, the tantalizing taste of him and his rich musky scent had quickly fanned them back to life. Her whole body pulsed with wanting the one element that had been missing the first time - the full measure of him filling her. She gave up the struggle, then straddled him. Reaching between her legs, she grasped him, then guided him inside her. He slid his hands up to her breasts as she arched her back. 

He let out a low growl, then he clutched a handful of her hair to pull her back further while he took the peak of her breast into his mouth. 

Leyza moaned as he suckled her deeply. Searing strands of intense need flowed from the touch of his tongue on her nipple and fed the fire raging deep in her belly. He held her pressed to his mouth with strong fingers that flexed over the skin of her back, and she couldn't move her head because he held her hair in the steel trap of his fist. But it didn't matter because with each upward thrust he brought her closer to the rapture every cell in her body craved.

With each upward thrust, Duncan lost another measure of the anguish that had nearly conquered him. With each upward thrust, he regained another misplaced piece of his soul. Then the need to control, to conquer overcame him, and he rolled Leyza under him.

She gasped at the sudden shift in position. For a moment she struggled against the dominating force of his body pressing down on hers, then some primal instinct whispered, _this is what he needs - what you wanted to give him._

She opened her legs wider to welcome him, then she wrapped them around his waist and surrendered to the sheer ecstasy of pleasing him.

Sensing her surrender, Duncan claimed her mouth, then poured every ounce of himself into bringing them both to a place beyond thought, beyond reason. A bright shimmering tower of pure feeling, pure joy. 

Then with little warning, shuddering release thundered over both of them in a skyrocket blast of sparkling sensations. It sucked them under a bubbling cauldron of bliss, then set them adrift on a shining sea.


	18. Shelter from the Storm Chapter 18

**Shelter from the Storm** Chapter 6

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.

* * *

Shelter from the Storm/part 18 

Totally spent, they lay holding each other as they gasped for breath. After a few moments, Duncan rolled to his side. With his leg still hooked over her thighs in a rather proprietary fashion, he gazed down at her, then brushed her hair back from her flushed face.

She reached up to stroke his cheek. "Don't hold anything back, now, darlin'," she said with a deep chuckle and a bad southern belle accent.

"But I didn't-" he began a protest, then he quickly realized she was teasing him. He got even by bending over to tickle her ribs just beneath the swell of her breasts.

"Duncan," she squealed in his ear, then she bit his shoulder to get him to stop.

He jerked his head up, then cast an indignant glance at the fading red teeth marks on his shoulder. "You bit me!" he shouted, failing to sound as quite furious as he'd intended.

"I could kiss it to make it better," she said with a grin, then she did just that.

He let her push him back, then he pulled a pillow under his head as she nibbled and kissed her way across his chest and up to his chin.

Keeping one arm tucked under the pillow, he wrapped the other around her shoulders, then drew lazy circles on her arm with his fingers.

"I wish I was a cat," she said, drizzling kisses over his chin.

"Why?" he asked, wondering how long he could lie still with her breasts brushing over his chest.

"So I could purr," she answered with a grin, her lips poised over his.

"Well, purr ,or no purr, _I'm_ glad you're a woman, and not a cat," he said, kissing her gently before he settled her head on his chest. "Somehow I don't think it would be much fun making love to cat - especially one of your mangy crew."

She lifted her head and responded with a charming giggle that sent waves of pure pleasure washing over him. "I beg your pardon," she said with feigned indignation. "They're not mangy - of all the nerve, insulting my dear sweet kitties!" Without warning, she began to tickle him, running teasing fingers over his ribs and stomach.

He snagged her hand, then nibbled the tips of her fingers to keep them out of trouble. "Okay," he said, laughing. "I take it back. I love your kitties - each and every one."

Once more, he settled her head into the hollow of his shoulder. With his hand over hers to keep her from tickling him again, he rested both their hands on his chest.

As she nestled closer, then stirred the hair on his chest with flexing fingers, he felt rather like purring himself. Fully sated and perfectly content, he slipped easily into a light slumber.

* * * * 

The nightmare began as it always did with the dark abandoned race track and the paper streamers dangling in his face. This time he found the strength to fight it. Some tiny knot of neurons deep in his mind remembered Leyza was lying at his side. Remembered that it wouldn't do to wake up screaming in anguish.

Before the nightmare could lock its jaws around him, he woke up with a sudden jolt, then he realized that his arms were empty. Reaching out for Leyza, he found only rumpled sheets - but they were still warm in the spot where she had lain. 

When he sat up, the reassuring tingle of her presence - which had been simmering in the back of his mind all along - finally seeped into his consciousness. He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. But where was she?

Listening for sound clues that might give him a hint where she'd gone, he waited a moment for her to return. But the only sounds he heard were the normal creaking and groaning of the barge moving against its moorings.

"Leyza?" he called out. Only the sound of his own voice answered with a faint echo. 

Still clinging to the hope of finding her nearby, he swept a glance around the empty room and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. Instead of the cold hard floor, his bare toes touched soft fabric. Puzzled for a moment by the unexpected texture, he wondered what it could be - then he remembered. 

He bent over and picked up Leyza's dress, then he smiled at the erotic memories this few yards of crepe conjured up. Holding it bunched in his hands for a moment, he let the memories fill his mind as he drew in the faint traces of her perfume that wafted over him, then he draped it over the end of the bed.

Quickly, he found his pants on the floor at the foot of the bed. He pulled them on, then skipping the stairs, he vaulted down to the lower floor. Remembering that he'd dropped his shirt near the bookshelf, he looked for it, but it wasn't there. He still didn't know where Leyza had gone, but if that was all she'd taken to wear, she'd probably be cold. Stopping to get an old quilt from one of the trunks, he went up on deck to see if that's where she'd gone.

And that's where he found her - sitting on the roof of the cabin with her knees hugged tight to her chest. From what he could see, all she had on was his white silk shirt.

"If you're going to stand watch, it's a good idea to dress in warm clothes," he said, walking toward her. She didn't turn her head, but he caught the edges of her smile as he gazed at her profile.

He sat next to her, then settled the quilt over both of them. When she finally turned to him her eyes glistened and he was sure she'd been crying.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, turning away again. With a faint sniffle, she rubbed a knuckle under each eye. 

"Nightmares?" he asked, pulling her closer.

She shook her head. "I suppose you could call it heartache, or regret perhaps," she said, with a note of bitter resignation.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked quietly, as he stared out at the river flowing past the bow. Probing like this, could get him into trouble because she had a way of turning the conversation back on him - but it seemed like she wanted to talk. Wanted to share her burdens with him instead of the river. How could he resist?

She wriggled out of his embrace, took a few steps over to the gunwale, then stared down into the water. "Did you ever raise a child?" she asked. He could barely hear her over the soft burble of the water.

Watching the breeze alternately lift the tail of the silk shirt, then mold it to her thighs, made it difficult for him to concentrate. He took a moment to corral his thoughts and consider her question before he answered it. 

"No," he said, finally. "Not really ... not in the usual sense."

"Smart move," she said, then her shoulders lifted as she sighed. "It can tear the heart out of you."

He got up, walked over to her side, then he wrapped the quilt around her shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her, as well, and pulled her back against him.

"Her name was Solange," she said after a few moments of silence. "Her parents - her adoptive parents, Anna and Pierre - were friends of mine. When she was 18 months old, they were killed in a terrible fire. They begged me to take her out first, then when I went back to help them, part of the floor had collapsed ... I couldn't get to them."

Beneath his arms her chest rose, then fell as she took a deep trembling breath.

"The first day they brought her into their home, I went to visit, and I knew right away that she was destined to become one of us. When they died, I had no choice. I couldn't turn her over to anyone else - strangers who wouldn't know her potential - so I took her in and raised her myself."

Duncan didn't interrupt, and he didn't comment. Keeping one arm wrapped around her waist, he moved the other up to caress her shoulder with a gentle massage as he thought of Kahani, and Ann's daughter, Mary - children he'd come close to raising before fate intervened. And he thought of Michele, and Claudia, and other children he'd watched friends raise - watched from the sidelines like a concerned uncle. And lastly, he thought of Richie.

Though Richie had already been 17 when they first crossed paths, he often felt like he'd raised him - they'd fallen so easily into the roles of father and son. They'd both suffered through Richie's Immortal growing pains, and then he'd watched with pride as his protege matured into a good friend. Then he'd killed him.

"I killed her," Leyza said, in a soft resigned voice that shook him because it so thoroughly mirrored his own thoughts. And shook him because it was the last thing he'd expected her to say.

His hands trembled and he found breathing difficult. He was caught in this conversation, and there was no way out.

Leyza pulled out of his embrace, taking the quilt with her. "Of course, Carlo Donatelli killed her first," she said.

She gnawed at the edge of her thumb as she paced before him trailing the quilt like the mantel of a queen. Despite his anxiety, Duncan had to smile at the image.

"I knew he had a violent temper and I warned her not to marry him. But she wouldn't listen - she was always rebellious and she never listened to me. After all, I'd only lived for 1700 years - what could I know that she didn't at the very august age of 26?" She turned to him and smiled, but she evaded his effort to take her back into his arms. 

Resigning himself to that failure, Duncan sat on the edge of the cabin roof and watched her pace. A little distance was safer anyway - perhaps if he kept his distance, he could keep himself from blurting out any troublesome confessions. 

"He killed her in a jealous rage," Leyza continued. "Plunged a knife into her heart before more than a hundred people at a gala." 

Finally, she stopped before him, then she reached out to stroke his hair back from his forehead. "I'm sorry," she said, skimming her hands down to his shoulders. "You're freezing cold - and I've got your quilt."

She took it off, then started to drape it over his shoulders. He snagged her wrist, pulling her down next to him, then he wrapped them both up in the quilt's soft folds.

"We could go back inside," he said, nuzzling her neck.

She laughed, then turned to rub her nose against his. "But you've got nowhere to sit inside."

He tipped his head back as he laughed. "I guess, I could get a couch."

"Uh, oh, that will get you into big trouble," she said, linking her fingers with his. "Start with a couch and it could lead to all sorts of dangerous things--" 

Leyza's lips tickled him as she smiled against his hand, then spread light kisses across his knuckles. "Things like chairs ... and lamps ... and coffee tables ... and the most dreaded of all ... knickknacks."

"I'll have to guard against that," he said, still laughing as he settled her head on his shoulder.

They sat for a time in silence, huddled together against the chill breeze that ruffled the water, then she sighed.

"I should never have let Jules Perrot see her dance, but she was so beautiful and so very talented. I thought perhaps it would give her wonderful memories she could look back on in a few hundred years." She turned to him with a sad smile.

As he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, a vague memory began to nag him - one of those odd flutters like the name of a song that teases as it hovers just out of reach. He let it linger in the hope that it would jell as he let Leyza continue uninterrupted.

"At first, Solange was thrilled with the idea of being Immortal. She wasn't crazy about learning to fight and handle a sword, still she took to the training with the easy grace of the natural athlete she was. She fully intended to defend herself, but she swore, she would never take another Immortal's head. She claimed it was too gruesome to imagine."

Leyza laughed softly as she shifted away from him. He thought she intended to get up again, but she simply moved her head from his shoulder to her bent knees.

"The trouble all started when I told her she couldn't rejoin the ballet company. She didn't understand, that people saw her die - important people. Carlo Donatelli was on trial for her murder. Balletomanes throughout Europe mourned her death. And she couldn't cope with the fact that the world of dance was essentially lost to her forever - possibly a very long forever."

A name finally joined the memories drifting through Duncan's mind. "Solange Laperriere," he mused, remembering, now, the headlines when she was murdered. "I saw her dance once ... in St. Petersburg - and you're right, she had an incredible gift."

The smile, and the glow of a proud mother that comment brought to Leyza's face told him more than words could ever tell him. He thought of Claudia Jardine, and how irresistible the urge to encourage that kind of talent could be - and how very wrong it could be if the talent belonged to an Immortal.

"For years she held on to the hope, that things might change ... that someday, somewhere a ballet master would accept a 28 year old unknown dancer with no verifiable credentials. With each failure she became increasingly bitter ... and she blamed me for every one."

"Why?" Duncan asked. "You didn't make her Immortal."

As she turned to him, Leyza laughed softly. "That's what May-Ling always said." She sighed, then she rested her head on his shoulder again while she toyed absently with a corner of the quilt.

"I don't know why ... not really. Solange had so much passion and she poured it all into her dancing. When she could no longer dance, the passion turned to anger, and she had no outlet for it. I guess, I was just the closest target. There's such a thin line between love and hate - doesn't take much of a shove to push some people over it."

"You can't blame yourself for that," he said, pressing tender kisses on her hand.

Those words echoed in his mind. Like a shout reverberating through a valley, they rushed back to taunt him. Perhaps he should listen to his own advice. Perhaps he should stop blaming himself for Richie's death - and so many other things he'd done. Perhaps Methos had the right idea. Perhaps it was time to forgive himself, time to let go of the guilt-ridden past, time to move forward with his life.

"I don't blame myself," Leyza said, as she lifted her head to stare at him. She stared at him as though she could read his soul, as though she knew what thoughts had scourged him throughout this long year.

To escape her scrutiny, he closed his eyes, tipped his head back and took a long deep breath. Leyza waited a moment, then drew his head back down with the gentle pressure of her thumb on his chin. Her fingers moved over his cheek with a light touch and she turned his head toward her.

"We all have our regrets, Duncan," she said, still searching his face with a penetrating gaze. "I've lived for over 1900 years - believe me, this is but one of mine. We all make decisions - some good, some bad. And we all react to situations - sometimes in a good way, and sometimes in ways that are not so good." Still stroking his cheek, she smiled as though she knew what he needed to hear

. 

"But we do it with only the information, the skills and the experience we have at hand - at that time. May-Ling always said, 'Hindsight is a sharp sword.' Others have said that hindsight is always 20/20 - either way, it's unwise to judge with clear sight what you did with blurred vision."

Is that what he'd been doing for the last year? Judging the events of that fateful night in the brighter light of hindsight? Possibly. But how else was he supposed to view them?

Leyza sighed as she finally turned away. "I loved her, Duncan, and I gave her all I had to give. When she came after me the last time, I didn't know what else to do. She'd tried killing herself ... but that's a bit difficult for us ... she tried killing me - and if I'd thought it would have ended her pain, I might have let her."

Just the thought of that - of losing Leyza before he'd even met her - sent icy streams sluicing down Duncan's spine. "That's never an answer," he said, holding her tighter.

"I know that, but if you could have seen her after I'd disarmed her ... on her knees begging for me to end it all - her bitterness turned to despair." Leyza's voice wavered as she fought for control.

Duncan let his arms and his hands do as much comforting as she would allow. With tender caresses he let her know she could break down and he'd be there to catch her, yet at the same time _he_ found a measure of comfort for himself in the wisdom of her words.

Her trembling shoulders lifted as she took a deep breath. "I tried to convince myself, that if she was mortal ... and lay in hospital bed, barely connected to life by tubes and breathing machines ... I'd pull the plug. So in essence, that's what I did."

He drew her across his lap, and stroked her hair. This time it was his turn to search _her_ face, to look deep into _her_ eyes. "And that's why you can't sleep - because you're haunted by the guilt?"

"No, Duncan," she said, softly, meeting his gaze with her own, then she smiled. "You're not listening. I set aside whatever guilt I felt, at first - but I still mourn her. Still miss her exuberance, her bright smile and the breathtaking sight of her spinning across the stage like a butterfly or gossamer leaf caught in a whirlwind."

She shifted in his arms, and Duncan thought she might get up again, but she didn't. 

"While Solange lived there was still the remote possibility that she could dance again," she continued. "But now that faint hope is gone. That final heartbreaking image of her plays itself over and over in my mind. It's the loss I can't set aside, Duncan - that's why I can't sleep."

She sighed deeply, then nestled down in his arms as though she planned to be there for awhile. And he was about to tease her about it, but then she asked, "So what's your excuse?"

That question - so unexpected, so disarming - completely shattered his complacency. He thought he was helping her with her problem, helping her to ease her mind, but now - just as he'd feared, earlier - she'd suddenly turned the whole situation around. Now she held it pointed at him like a cocked pistol.

"Er .. nothing really," he said, disturbing her repose as he stood. He dragged his trembling hand down his face, then rubbed his chin as he searched for an exit - any escape at all from the trap she'd just sprung. "A little insomnia, that's all - too many things on my mind ... you know how it is for us. Too many years of living."

"Too many years?" she said, chuckling softly as she rose, then moved to his side. "Remember, you're talking to a woman who's nearly 2000 years old - and I don't believe that." She set her hand on his arm gently, then she gripped him with fingers that were anything but. 

"Who's Richie?" she asked in a soft voice as she held him in a tight grasp. Held him so he couldn't escape.


End file.
